Powers
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Dark Reign AU: This is the brass ring! The Cabal blows half of Washington DC to hell. Then the Mole Man destroys HAMMER. Loki kidnaps Norman Osborn. Doctor Doom raises the dead. Scott Summers pummels Namor. And then the Void rears its ugly head...
1. Powers

**New York. Avengers Tower.**

**Moonstone and Noh-Varr.**

This is how it starts.

_She catches him as he's on his way back to his suite from the shower. Why Tony Stark didn't put WCs in individual suites is beyond capacity for rational thought—much like Tony himself._

_She flings the door open just as he walks past and she says, "Hey."_

_He turns around looking a little timid at the custom—is this how human women present?. And she asks, "What are you doing now?" He says "Nothing." She says, "Come in here, then." The implication of course is that in about four minutes—maybe less, if his alien physiology jumps the gun—he's going to be doing her._

_And he just kinda strolls into her room when she makes the request. The door closes softly behind him._

_From me spot at the end of the hall, I saw it all._

_Not that I'd want to see more, mind you._

_I'd much rather be thinking about Elektra. Come to think of it..._

Bullseye pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and smiles and makes for his own suite.

* * *

Karla Sofen presses her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Her back arches and she runs her hands through her hair. The mouth hangs open slightly, caught between a scowl and a smile. So he must be doing something right.

And then she falls slowly, laying her head on his chest for a moment before shifting and laying next to him on this thing she calls a 'bed'. As she does, he sneaks in a leer at the curvature of her body. It's not perfect and not even really shapely. But she makes up for unseemliness in other ways. She's voracious, and spry. And fast.

He respects that.

The ritual of course is different on this planet than on his own, but there exist certain similarities. Those are too—he prefers not to think too greatly about them except to say there are similarities.

She seems luxurious, despite the flaws he notices and catalogues away in his mind. And while he's doing this and pretending to relish in the smell of bergamot on her skin, she does most of the work.

He likes that not.

Noh Varr is no one's servant.

But she does seem to enjoy the ritual.

Enjoy him.

There follows an interminable silence after the ritual ends. It's Noh Varr who speaks up first. "You're the first human girl I've ever—"

"Yeah?"

She can't even let him finish a sentence.

He's torn.

Between wanting to take her again and wanting to throw her through a wall.

A minute passes and he says he also dislikes the human mating ritual. And he gets the sense that it's not so much a ritual for practicality's sake so much as for amusement. As if she has nothing better to do.

And then she wonders aloud how Norman Osborn will propagate the idea that his Avengers are psychopaths and criminals.

"He put together what?" Noh Varr asks.

She shushes him.

"You're all criminals? I thought—"

Another interruption: "Just like you, right?"

His Kree heart skips a beat.

The televised program she watches gets pre-empted.

He stands up and throws the sheet back to the bed. Strolls across the bedroom in his naked imperial majesty. Retrieves his pants with similar majesty and hurries out of Karla Sofen's bedroom with perfect posture, perfectly messy hair and perfect snobbery.

He has the good sense to close the door after himself, and softly too, and she sits there for a second beaming in her own magnificence.

Once he's gone, she laughs aloud and flops herself back on the bed.

Another world conquered for Dr Karla Sofen.

* * *

**Antarctica.**

—**138° Fahrenheit.**

**The Sentry and The Void.**

_Well. Another one off the list, Sentry. I owe you a Coke. You can survive in the heart of the Sun, you can survive here too. Way to prove me wrong._

(Was there any doubt that I wouldn't?)

_No._

(Then why are you here?)

_You want to clear your head and you want to know if you died in Latveria. Died saving a man that probably didn't deserve saving. Well._

(Well what?)

_You didn't die. Trust me.  
_

(Then what did I do?)

_You went and got yourself blown to hell by Arthur's guttersnipe of a sorceress. She did with you what she was going to do with Victor von Doom. She travelled into your distant past—'cause that's what she does—and killed you. Before you even became the Sentry. If you like, before you even hit puberty._

(What?)

_The age of ten. You were on the swingset._

(If that were really true...I wouldn't have come back. I wouldn't be here)

_True._

(Then how am I here?)

_You wanted to live. Which is also the explanation for how the Professor's formula didn't give you horrible leukemia or kill you on the spot during your younger and, eh, more foolish days.  
_

(You're lying)

_Possibly. Could be she killed you and you reconstituted yourself by sheer force of will. Could be that she just put some stupid ineffectuality spell on you that went away once the good Doctor Doom sent her to her death. Could just be that it was all an illusion._

(Set up by you)

_Possibly._

(God damn you)

_Why did you come out here, Sentry?_

(I...needed to clear my head)

_You want to know if what Clint Barton said is true. Don't you? You want to know what Norman Osborn did._

(Yes)

_Well, 'Murderer' is such an ugly word. And when we're talking about Norman 'bottom of the food chain' Osborn, few come closer._

(It is true then?)

_Spare me the whole 'dios mio!' bit, Sentry; it is irrelevant. As are these earthly notions you have about right and wrong. Come on, Sentry. The universe's more interesting than that. More interesting than you letting Norman Osborn think you're remotely troubled by me. Letting him think he has the power to stop you.  
_

(Doesn't he)

He's only human. What does he know?

(And what are you?)

_Better than him. And so are you. You only, as they say, lack the light to see the way._

(Why are you here?)

_**We **are here...because you smell a rat. Bob Reynolds smells a rat._

The ash-black form of the Void materializes in front of the Sentry. Unmarred by the snowstorm raging around them. Its blood-red eyes bolden for a moment and it smiles. Robert Reynolds hears the voice of death in his head. The ash-black corpse reaches an ethereal and spade-black tendril towards the Sentry. The infini-tendrils of The Void.

The ones that show past, present and future—courtesy of Robert Reynolds' abysmal nemesis.

The tendril wraps around the Sentry's neck and constricts. The Sentry doesn't feel the cold of the snowstorm. But he feels the crushing pressure and infinite cold of the Void.

And then it shows him Norman Osborn.

Past.

Present.

And future.

* * *

**The Astral Plane.**

**The Cabal.**

"It is of no concern." The Lord of Latveria stood unmoving, his arms folded confidently over his chest; the cold steel mask was in the shape of a scowl by happenstance.

"Agreed," Loki said. She focused weight on one leg, and gathered the ermine stole close, covering herself against a cold that wasn't there. Making herself look regal.

"Agreed," Namor said. His posture matched that of Dr Doom's, except he hovered in the air.

"Agreed," Emma Frost said. She looked gaunt compared to the rest. Her figure was slim, and the white cape around her shoulders fluttered in the ethereal breeze.

Osborn rolled his eyes. "I'm so pleased you all think this way."

It entered his mind and left as quickly that the Hood was not here.

Osborn didn't miss him, and doubted anyone else did. This was not a conversation for his interests...

Frost spoke first. "You went on television, bloody gave them what they wanted. Now they have their explanation. Let Clint Barton rot."

"Aye!" Namor interjected.

"The concern," Osborn said, "is the same it always is. Someone's not going to believe it."

"That someone," Emma Frost corrected, "is probably some twenty-six-year-old virgin who lacks familiarity with the fairer sex."

Namor chuckled.

"Why do you care, Osborn?" The Goddess of Mischief had been intent to show up, but looked greatly bored the whole time. Checking her nails with inquisitiveness, as if they'd never been there before. As if they were foreign. Disgusting. Like she missed her former shell. When she asked the question she finally took the effort to look Osborn in the face. "These people are not to be trusted."

"It's not a matter of trust, Loki," Osborn said and his face contorted. He was annoyed.

"Is it a matter of ego?" Namor asked. "Can you not accept that someone doesn't like you?"

Osborn threw an accusatory finger at the King of Atlantis. "Don't you start!"

The Goddess of Mischief was closer to Osborn now. She touched a gloved-hand to his chin and brought his view back to look at her squarely. "Norman," she said. "Why does it matter?"

"Loki is right," the Lord of Latveria said. Under the faceplate his eyes narrowed and he added, as he condescended, "You have your power base. May death come quickly to your enemies."

"It's not that simple," Osborn said and looked at the floor. He was getting irritated when he wasn't making eye contact. That's how it started for him. Then his shoulders tensed—which they were—and he started grinding his teeth. "These people expect a bunch of crocodile tears. That I can do, but its your word, all of yours, and your actions. Our actions. It's all of that that makes this legitimate."

Emma Frost rolled her eyes. "You worry too much."

"Huh?" Osborn grunted.

Her eyes narrowed. "You've thrown together the world's worst cricket game, Norman. You've made a career and a reputation out of your distinct lack of care for things like this, and now you're, how they say, a worrywart. If you choose to indulge this frankly churlish emotional response—"

"The mutant is right," the Lord of Latveria said. "It is no concern of ours that a rogue Avenger—has challenged you. The idiom in your land, Osborn, might be, 'so what?'"

Osborn gave the Lord of Latveria a serious look. Said, "No one says no to me. Especially not some two-bit nutjob in a ninja suit whose trying to recapture the glory days."

Loki rolled her eyes.

Namor's eyes narrowed and went from Emma Frost to Doom, and then to Osborn. The King of Atlantis, for a moment, thought that Osborn's televised reply—his owning up to what the Daily Bugle and the one called Urich called a 'legacy of evil'—was touching in its pharisaic way. Probably, somewhere, even Spider-Man shivered and felt sorry for Osborn. And then probably shook himself out of it.

Doom and Osborn were a foot away from each other now. And...Doom seemed...so much taller, Namor thought. So much greater. Magisterial in his presence. Namor smiled thinly and let out a cool breath.

"Have you something to say," Doom asked. "'Lord of America?'"

"If I were you," Osborn said, "I would stand back. You know what I can do to you?"

Under the cold steel faceplate, Victor von Doom raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what I can do to you?" he asked, inflecting all the right syllables to emphasise a challenge.

"Try it," Osborn said.

Under the faceplate, Doom scowled. As before, he emphasised all the right words and his anger grew as he spoke. "I invented time travel, you supercilious fraud. I can destroy your cities yesterday. I can prevent your dead wife from ever meeting you. I can prevent Mendel Stromm from ever existing and ever creating that opprobrious 'Goblin Formula', and I can render that waste of space you call a son into a foot-sucking halfwit. I can do the same for Spider-Man. And for you. And you know this.

Osborn kept his gaze on the Lord of Latveria. Neither flinched.

Emma Frost rolled her eyes and started pacing, bored.

Loki smiled thinly.

"I allowed you here as a courtesy," Osborn said. "Not to trade insults for the sake of ego."

Doom was an inch from Osborn's nose.

"You are not and never shall be in a position to allow me anything. _**I**_ allow **_you _**to exist. _**Speck**_. Have a care and be grateful that Doom is so merciful."

Namor's eyes darted between the two. He felt awkward for only a moment, then cracked a thin smile. Osborn would not win this one.

Doom went on. "As Ms Frost so eloquently put it, Osborn...the only one here who lacks powers of any definitive type is you. Your rise to power rested on subterfuge and cowardice. Your reputation is built on murdering a defenceless girl. And your mental state...is highly suspect."

The Goddess of Mischief's eyes were locked on Doom. _Magnificent_, she thought. _Purely magnificent._

"Deal with your so-called 'bad press', Osborn," the Lord of Latveria said. "As we all have and all shall. Or someone else will do it for you. As we speak, someone in your program means to exploit you."

"He's right," Emma Frost said. "You don't even need a superpower to see it, Norman."

"Heavy lies the crown," The Goddess of Mischief murmured. She glanced at Namor with an imperceptible smile, and he mirrored her expression.

"If the bitter misgivings of a manic-depressive ex-convict bother you so...run back to your little sphere of influence, and see for yourself," Doom said. "Leave Clint Barton to us."

"You?" Osborn said.

"My agents," Doom said and looked off into the aether, painfully smiling under the cold steel facemask, "will...take care of him."

Namor growled a minor disapproval and rolled his eyes. He went to Emma Frost's side and threw an uncaring arm around her waist. Their twin gaze locked on Osborn.

The Goddess of Mischief cocked an eye at Osborn and wrapped crimson bands around herself as she departed.

"I do enjoy your, how you say, 'pissing matches', Norman. They sustain me."

Her ruby lips smiled again, briefly, and she was gone.

Osborn looked around. Then at the Lord of Latveria.

"Your arrogance blinds you, Victor. Threaten me again—"

"When I threaten you, Osborn...insect...you will know it."

And the Lord of Latveria was gone, consumed by a flash of green where he had stood a moment previous.

Osborn looked at Emma. "What?!"

"You might be interested to know something right now. The one you call 'Moonstone' just let your cat out of the bag. Cheerio."

With that, Frost took Namor, Osborn and herself off the Astral Plane.

Osborn she put in the conference room in Avengers Tower.

Namor she took with her to San Francisco. To the penthouse she shared with Scott Summers. To the bed they shared.

That she was about to share with the King of Atlantis.

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Noh-Varr and The Sentry and Norman Osborn.**

Robert Reynolds was in plainclothes—denims and a blue Oxford and morbidly expensive Italian ankle-boots—hunched over the kitchen bar island. Balancing a Kennedy half dollar on its side on the granite countertop and looking greatly interested in it. Greatly worried. His hair hung in tight strands all over and he wiped them back over his ears every few minutes. He was frowning but his brow didn't have the downturned lines on it. His eyebrows were angled sharply and the muscles doing the contraction ached. And he was starting to get a headache from clenching his teeth.

He flipped the half-dollar on the countertop and a moment later, he slapped his hand on it before it could come to a full stop.

The door from the hallway creaked open off to his right. He spun the half dollar again.

Bob looked up when the light from the hallway illuminated part of the kitchen.

Noh Varr rushed in. Naked. He was carrying lounge pants or something over a crooked forearm.

Cusght really rather offguard, Bob spun the half-dollar over the counter's edge and into the sink on the other side. He said, "oh shit," and leant over and fished it out.

By the time he had the half dollar back on its edge and rolling it back and listening to the grinding sound it made on the granite, Noh Varr had his pants on. Thankfully.

Bob pocketed the half dollar and turned the stool around. He sat hunched still, his shoulders low and his hands clasped together lazily in the gap between bowed legs.

"Noh, is it?"

"Yes," Noh Varr said and fetched a VitaminWater from the refrigerator, on the other side of the island counter. He opened it greedily and guzzled half the bottle before setting it back on the counter in a swift and harried way and letting out the Coca-Cola 'ahhh'.

Bob cocked a quick eyebrow at that and changed gears. He said, "You okay?"

"No," the Kree said. He turned around so he could face Bob. He leaned against the counter on his side and Bob momentarily checked out Noh's abs.

_Oh hell's bells, jealous, Sentry?_

(Shut up)

He pulled the half-dollar from his pocket and started balancing it on the counter again.

"What's bothering you?" Bob asked. He wanted it to sound distant. He wasn't a people person.

Noh Varr, with his messy platinum hair and vaguely harried demeanour and .02% perspiration dermal perspiration quotient...he looked a mess. Bob didn't even need his enhanced senses to see it.

Noh Varr flexed his arms to propel himself up onto the counter to sit. When he spoke, finally, he did so staring at the floor.

"I was just uh, talking to Karla? Moonstone?"

Bob nodded, "yeah."

Noh Varr hesitated for a moment beyond that. His mouth hung open by an inch. He was choosing his words.

"What if," Noh said carefully. "What if...the man leading us. Leading this team. What if he's not who he says he is?"

Bob did a minor eye-roll at that. "I don't know, I encountered the Chameleon once, a long time ago. Generally it's a pretty easy spot once you watch them—"

"It's not that," Noh Varr insisted. "Moonstone said...that Norman created a team of—"

"Assassins and murderers?"

Osborn was leaning against the hallway doorjamb. In a dark green suit. Green tie. The hair was the same as it had been for him since his first birthday back in 51. The face was creased. Old. The eyes were deep, like they always were, and they were full of authority. Pride. Hatred.

Bob shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. Noh Varr ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"Well—" Bob eked out.

Noh Varr interrupted him, "Is this true? Are you a criminal?"

"Okay," Osborn said and sounded reasonable. He went for the empty barstool next to Bob and eased into it. Propped his elbows on it and steepled his fingers in front of his face and looked at Noh Varr with now inquisitive eyes. "Talk to me. Where's this coming from?"

Noh repeated. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Osborn said. Sadly.

Bob took a deep and quiet breath.

He heard the Void in his head again. _Ask him about Gwen Stacy, Sentry..._

"And Spider-Man?" Noh Varr added.

Osborn sighed. "You saw the interview. Yes. I was the Green Goblin. In another life."

Bob waited a moment. Then, carefully: "What about this life?"

Osborn looked at Bob but did not move his head. He looked worried. Maybe...just thoughtful.

"Yes," Osborn said. "It was a dark time for me. Luke Cage assaulted me in public. Trashed my office. Got some trumped-up evidence that I'd killed a Daily Bugle reporter for the hell of it. Ben Urich wrote a book about it." Pause. "And...now, I'm better."

_The way he just recounted it, Sentry. How...unnerving..._

"How?" Noh Varr said. He hadn't looked away from Osborn.

"During the superhuman civil war, agents of SHIELD apprehended me. Forced me into therapy. Gave me prescriptions."

"Forced?" Noh asked.

Osborn smiled. "I was not a well-man. And even the mentally ill are loath to admit they need help."

_So he got help._

"So that's it, then?" Bob asked.

"Yes," Osborn said and made it sound apprehensive. Like it was a war story he wasn't particularly proud of recounting.

_And yet...think about it Sentry._

Osborn stood and straightened his jacket. "Is that all, gentlemen?" he asked and was already heading for the hallway door.

Quickly, Noh Varr said, "No."

Bob eyes widened and his gaze went from Noh to Osborn.

Osborn didn't stop.

Noh was on his feet now. Just a level below enraged.

"You stop right there, Osborn!"

A strong and curved arm shot out from a strong and curved body. Face full and red, his jaw turned down, locked into a motionless scowl. The light in the kitchen was dim and made Noh Varr look...

_Look what, Sentry? Like me?_

He looked...

Ripped.

_What an odd thought, Sentry._

Norman's eyes burned for a moment and narrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground.

Noh Varr spoke quietly and slowly and deliberately.

"You will answer me when I speak to you."

Osborn cocked his head and one half of his mouth bent into a smile.

"You don't have to get sore all the time. Now what's wrong?"

"Clint Barton was once a man of respect on these Avengers. I have spent enough time here to know this. And the rest of them. Men of honor. Men and women who defended this planet of yours when it needed them most. Men and women who would not speak ill for no reason."

Osborn gave a muted sigh.

"They are honourable," Noh Varr said. "Or else your would be on a pike in Dorrek's throne room!"

Bob had taken to the half dollar again, holding it and rolling it back and forth between his thumb and index finger. He looked worried.

Noh Varr went on. And Osborn seemed to be patient.

"My people have been fighting those dishonourable shape-shifters since time began. Again and again we have fallen short of full victory, and yet you delivered it in a single day. With a single shot. I want to know how."

Osborn raised an eyebrow at that and felt the anger starting up again.

Osborn thought, _Do you want to know about Deadpool's role in how I killed the Skrull queen, Noh Varr? Would you prefer I talk about how much of a charlatan and a coward Nick Fury is? Or how many laws he continues to break? Do you want to know about how this world has gone to asolute hell and how all the wrong people were in charge and how you're all so goddman myopic that it boggles my mind and the mind of every other rational human being on this little suckling mudball you call a goddamn home?_

After a moment, Osborn spoke. And got increasingly irritated: "There's a lot at stake here, Noh Varr. More than you realize, I think. This is a world that allows Reed Richards to go back and forth into _**another universe**_ like some people get their mail. This is a world that's tacitly allowed an _**irradiated scientist**_ with daddy issues to continue existing out of sheer _**pity**_! The same irradiated monster that blew into town some months ago and blew _**this**_ building half to hell! There's a Master of Magnetism out there that wants to _**kill**_ all us normal people all so he can revenge himself against a bunch of Nazis that've been _**dead**_ for sixty-four years!! Now you want to talk about saving the world?!**_ I'm_** out there doing it! **_Me_**!**_ I'm_** the one! The one they all have to look up to!! The **_only _**one that saved the day when your Avengers and Captain America and Tony Stark couldn't even find their own goddamn **_feet_**! I saved the day!"

Osborn's face was flushed with rage. Conquered by pride.

Noh Varr was silent. He and Bob kept their eyes on Osborn.

"And now you're crucifying me for it," he said. Quietly. Totally differently. "Right or wrong doesn't figure into it. Those people--those Skrulls--wanted to strip-mine this planet. I stopped them. And you--this team--we're meant to defend ourselves against those kind of people. The ones that want to kill us and not look back. If you want to make a judgment call about what I've done with my life, Noh Varr, then that's prerogative. Think about your own life first. Your life was forfeit in your own dimension and it's forfeit here. You should thank whatever gods you Kree worship that I saved your ass when I did. Else you'd still be rotting in the middle of the Nevada Desert."

Noh Varr's arm flashed out again.

Throttled Osborn.

"Do not," Noh said, "Test me."

Bob said, quietly, "Noh."

The Kree looked over at him slowly.

"Let him go," Bob said and didn't sound pleased with himself.

Noh released Osborn, who coughed once and straightened his tie.

"We're all trying to make up for our lives, Noh." Osborn was frank. But he sounded severe. "And I'm trying to save this world from itself. I need your help. I'm just one man. I don't have any powers and that's for the best. This world needs an honest human to see it through. One without a ruby quartz visor or gamma-radiation or, God forbid, spider-webs coming out of his wrists."

Bob slumped a little bit.

"And," Osborn finished, "if you can't or won't be a part of that. Then you can leave. No one will stop you."

Bob didn't move. Neither did Noh Varr.

Bob guessed it wasn't because of loyalty, either.

"Good," Osborn said and turned to leave. Before sliding into the hallway fully, he looked back at Bob and Noh Varr. Both seemed...stunned. Motionless. "Your counterparts that continue to break the law? Luke Cage and Barton. And Spider-Man. Especially Spider-Man...you're better men than they are. You're not afraid to face the world. Good night, gentlemen."

Noh Varr sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. He ambled slowly out of the kitchen and waved lazily to Bob, murmuring "see you tomorrow" as he went.

Bob lingered for a moment and pocketed the half-dollar. Then the kitchen was a bright flash of light, but only for a moment. When the light dissipated, Bob Reynolds was gone.

Gone to the middle of the Sun. About 63,000 degrees Kelvin, if he remembered correctly.

He didn't care about putting the aura up. The star wouldn't kill him. Wouldn't burn him. The only thing he felt was warm, and slightly more so since his clothes had atomized on arrival, leaving him naked and quiet amidst the unending fury of nuclear fusion in every direction. Like a tanning bed, even though that was a piss-poor analogy.

What he really felt, though, was miserable.

He wondered what else he could survive. A supernova? Black hole?

(Norman killed Gwen Stacy. Didn't he?)

_You already know the answer._

(Why are you doing this?)

_Because Norman Osborn thinks he runs the world, and I dare to think otherwise. You tried to tell him, when he came to exorcise me the first time: he has no idea what's going on here. Not with you and not with anything else. He's never tasted apocalypse. He's never destroyed creation for the hell of it. Never blown up a country. Never forsaken the love of his life for a fraction more magical knowledge. He's not your Thanos. Or Ultron. And he's certainly not the great Doctor Doom. And he knows it._

(What does he know, then?)

_How to harass a thirtysomething loser in a red and blue onesie for ten years. And he was barely proficient in that._

(You don't think much of him)

_He's a man. Trying to be a god. Trying to be the greatest of his kind when he doesn't realize that the spot's been filled for years._

(By who. You?)

_Oh please. And not even you._

(Someone)

_Yes. Someone far greater. Far more...interesting._

_

* * *

_**Castle Doom.**

Victor von Doom fraternized with the Goddess of Mischief that night, after the ego contest on the Astral Plane. She seemed to enjoy the ritual for sport and for the fact that in another life (and another physical avatar) the Lord of Latveria would not, as they say, 'have gone for it'. And because her partially-carefully-laid plans concerning the gradual debilitation of Norman Osborn's mind were coming along faster than even she anticipated. So the tryst with the Lord of Latveria was in celebration of this, and of greater besides.

Doom's master stroke was now in motion.

His hammer would strike hardest at Osborn.

And the irony was not lost on Loki.

She slept calmly that night, the first such night in a thousand moons, cozened in the strong and cold arms of Victor von Doom.

* * *

**San Francisco.**

The same could be said for Emma Frost, deep in the throes of an adulterous frenzy with the King of Atlantis. Namor gave a charming and utterly handsome smile as the White Queen sidled up next to him and gave a contented sigh. And he still thought Scott Summers was a waste of her time.

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

Karla Sofen slept badly that night. Noh Varr hadn't returned like she thought he would. It was two hours after he'd left in a naked hurry that she stirred awake again. The room was pitch-black except for the thin stripes distorted over the bed and wall and floor, from the moonlight streaking through the shades.

When she woke, and her vision cleared, Norman Osborn was standing at the foot of her bed.

Watching her.

Perfectly expressionless.

She gathered the sheets about her instinctively. Admittedly scared.

"Slander me again," Osborn said. "And I'll kill you."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	2. New Orders

**_Author's Note:_** Alright, so I suppose one would have to be at least marginally familiar with the current landscape of the Marvel Universe in order to figure out what I'm on about here. Suffice it to say that Norman Osborn doesn't like anyone. And he likes Spider-Man even less. And while all that's going on, there is, as ever, something far weirder and far more just-plain-bad going on in the bowels of the Marvel Universe; just-plain-bad, but maybe not plain-surprising. The setting of Liberty Island below comes from a prety novel thing Mark Waid did in his time on the main Fantastic Four book back in 2003: having Spidey and the Torch have some kind of 'meeting place' where they'd talk about bad calzones, old girlfriends or really anything. My thanks also to soultaker78 who pointed me in the direction of the 'War Machine' and 'Punisher' monthlies on the stands now, the 'Dark Reign'-related elements of which in turn pointed me in some interesting (I hope) directions. And, in the words of Stephen King, you, Constant Reader. Always you.

* * *

**Liberty Island.**

**Spider-Man and the Human Torch.**

They had taken up fishing.

Or, more accurately, Johnny had showed up one day for their little once-a-month deal, and Spidey had been sitting there perched on the railing with a bamboo fishing rod. Horribly ramshackle. "Where'd you get that?" Johnny Storm'd asked. "Made it," Spider-Man said. Johnny'd cocked an eye and said, "Huh."

That was five years ago.

So it's been a thing that they do every week or so. They meet up, and go fishing.

Normal people, or so Peter Parker supposed, got lunch and went dutch. _We superfolk? We go fishing off of Liberty Island. We talk about old girlfriends and world conquerors and how the fish aren't biting and never will._

_This is it._

_You've arrived, Parker._

Under the red and blue onesie, Parker sighed and yanked on the bamboo fishing rod. Maybe if he dangled it out there, they'd bite.

_That's the stuff bad movies are made of. Geez._

He looked up, toward Lady Liberty's torch up there, and saw a bright orange and yellow light in the shape of a man winding down around her arm. Her neck. He circled the waist a couple or five times, and then landed abruptly next to Spider-Man.

The flames that comprised his body dissipated and he slicked his hair back and put on the shiteatingest smile he could muster.

Johnny Storm.

"Hey, hey," he said in a jingle. "Sup Spidey?"

Spidey was nonplussed. "Oh you know, just trying to catch dinner."

"I thought you ate babies?"

"Jameson's dream," Spidey corrected. "And yours. Maybe. If you've turned on me. Have you, Johnny? Is nothing sacred?"

Johnny mimicked the churlish, high-society laugh. "Oh, Spider-Man, poor Spidey. I'm sorry if you ever thought I was your friend. I was the one that ratted you out, you know."

Spidey cocked his head. "Of course!"

Then they laughed. In unison.

Spidey threw the bamboo fishing rod over the railing and slapped one of the 'hey, long time no see' hugs around Johnny Storm.

This was what they did. It was equal parts honest-to-God friends and abusive relationship.

Once, when they were fighting the Lizard in the old Hong Kong Kowloon Shipping Warehouse in the village, the not-so-himself-Dr-Connors had made a joke along the lines of Spidey being Storm's hetero life partner. Indignant, Storm had grabbed the Lizard, flown him to the roof, burned his damn scales off in the process, beat the everlasting tar out of him and then said "How dare you presume Spidey and I are an item. I can do way better!"

In that order.

So that was that. If it weren't for previous engagements and Johnny Storm's contractual immortality on the Fantastic Four, Spidey had, in another life, expressed a desire for a team-up. Old school, professional or kinda-fake-because-of-those-speedos-and-who-does-Ric-Flair-think-he-is wrestling.

Yeah.

They were leaning against the railing now, mirroring each other's stance: one leg bearing most of their weight, the other held behind as a prop. Arms folded across respective chests, holding up their chins in that longing, greeting card way.

Freakishly alike.

If it wasn't so painfully obvious, Spider-Man had, covertly, gone to great lengths to make it seem otherwise. He couldn't be Johnny Storm. Couldn't even come close. They served the same ends now but it wasn't always that way.

Parker couldn't afford to have friends. Couldn't afford to be like Johnny Storm, except when the suit allowed it. When he was Spider-Man, he wasn't Parker.

Duh.

But true enough.

When he wasn't Parker.

He was happy.

He was free.

"You wanna talk about it?" Johnny asked.

"What?"

"Well," Johnny said, "way I hear, you got a nice shiner from Osborn couple of days ago."

Spidey sighed. "Maybe the better question is, do you want to hear about it?"

"You know how I live vicariously through you, Pete."

Another sigh. "He strung me up in his tower, tortured me, and then he shot me in the head. Did I mention that he shot me? Because that's important. Didn't want you to forget. Oh, and he knocked up my best friend's fiancé. Or so I'm told. That's probably important, too."

"Well," Johnny said and took the opportunity of silence to search for the right words. For once. "That's just disgusting."

A scoff this time. "I'll say. Anyway, how are you?"

"I dunno," Johnny shrugged. "Same old same old? Trips to here, there and yon. Reed's gone all 'Beautiful Mind' on us again."

"Beating up the good Doctor?"

"I freaking wish. Giving Doom what-for always used to be Ben's thing, but I'd give your left kidney to stroll into Latveria and get in on it. How sad is that? I miss fighting Dr Doom. I miss it! God..."

"Shit happens?" Spidey shrugged.

Johnny pursed his lips and cast another line. "I dunno, Pete. Maybe I need to get out more. Spice up my nights."

"You're gonna cry over spilt life?"

"Oh you're being melodramatic." Johnny waved him off.

"Am I?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "I think, somewhere, deep down, old Doomsie does enough crying for all of us." And he chuckled.

Spidey waited a moment. "Well, I'll take this moment to throw a one-man pity party for myself: archenemy, gun, shot, head!"

"Nahh," Johnny said. "You guys were always thick as thieves. You're feeling the burn, but are you surprised?"

"No."

"There ya go, sport."

"So what do I do?"

Johnny's posture straightened and he looked at Spidey, slightly bewildered. "You—you're asking me?"

"Sure," Spidey shrugged.

"I'm not really a good judge of character here, you know? I mean, I tend to hang out with the Real Housewives of New Jersey, Pete. Not exactly the eggheads you spend your nights with." Johnny felt ever so dirty at having used the word 'eggheads' (natch, from the Benjamin J. Grimm English Dictionary). He shivered a bit.

"Yeah, I know," Spidey said. "I can't believe the words are coming out of my mouth, either, but...Johnny...I'm...asking...for...advice. I think."

"You're not going to vomit from saying those words, are you?"

"I might."

"Really?"

Spidey sighed louder this time. "Oh geez, Johnny, come on."

"Alright, alright. You want the Han Solo line or a Johnny Storm original?"

"Han Solo?"

"You know the one. 'Been from one end of the galaxy to the other'? And, uh, so on."

Spidey looked at Johnny with a cocked head for a moment. "How does a schmuck like you know Star Wars?"

"I don't know," Johnny said off-handedly. "I used to date this girl...I'm kinda into Doctor Who now."

"Oh geez..."

Johnny got suddenly serious. Which happened to be his real superpower, in case Spidey would ever forget. "What did you call me out here for, Pete?"

Spidey was silent for a moment. "You're right," he said finally. "I did get shot in the head a few days back, by no less than my archenemy. If this sounds all Venture Bros. for you, then deal. I'm fully aware of the genre and how lame we all are that we get chased around and beaten up by guys that should be paying into the New York Public Employees Retirement by now."

"You're telling me!" Johnny interjected. "How the hell old is that geezer in the vulture suit?"

"I dunno, like ninety. Look, Johnny. My question is this. If I am feeling the burn from Norman—why did I even say it like that, of course I am!—then...how much longer does this last before something really bad happens?"

Johnny hung on it for a moment. He didn't move. His jaw slacked a bit and his eyes tared into the dark distance. Probably, he guessed, maybe, likely, he was staring at what was Hoboken. He shivered again, at that realization, and got back to Parker's query. He cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips. And had the perfect answer lined up. Slowly, deliberately, with the majesty and seriousness of Charles Kuralt on the road...

"I dunno."

"Jesus Christ, Johnny," Spidey said. Annoyed. He started walking away.

"Oh hey, wait a second, Pete, come on!"

Spidey stopped. And turned back. "Alright, Johnny. Give me something. You see The Tonight Show a few weeks back? Wonder Man going out there and telling Leno we're all screwed because Norman is running the nuthouse now? It's right on the money, okay? We're livin' it. I want to know, Johnny. I'm asking you as a friend. If this is going to end."

Johnny's brow furrowed and he looked like he was actually thinking through an answer. He looked away, at the night and the skyline, and the back to Spidey.

"You up for a story?"

"Sure."

"Couple of years back, there was this thing going on, you might remember it. Tony Stark decided he ran the world and wanted to bring the rest of us onboard, and long story short, I wound up in the hospital because of some cavemen at a Chelsea nightclub—and I know I should have seen it coming, nightclubs in Chelsea and all that--but my point stands. The best part was waking up alone at 3 in the morning and having to call Nurse Ratched for the bedpan."

"I know."

"I know you know," Johnny said. "That's why I'm using the example. I got the everlasting shit beaten out of me by the same kind of people that followed Frankenstein to the windmill in that awful Hugh Jackman movie. I'm saying, Pete—I'm saying two things. One is that life goes on. The other is that it never ends. I figured that out in the hospital, while you and the rest of my iPhone contacts went all First Blood on each other. You asked me if Norman Osborn playing bumper pool with the rest of the world ends sometime."

Spidey said, "And?"

"Ordinarily, I'd say no."

"So it is another day at the races for you?"

Johnny scoffed. "Not really, no, you should've seen your friend Osborn burst into the Building last week like he owned the place. Ben didn't like being told how high to jump, if you get me. Not sure he really can jump, but yeah. Anyway, your friend Norman's just another idjit with his finger on the button. Sorry if this seems like another typical day for me, but I gotta be honest, it sort of is."

"Normal is how he gets his claws around you."

"Then his reach, as Reed would say, exceeds his grasp," Johnny said. He was serious again, and his features were too. The hair fluttered a bit in the breeze and the eyes didn't move from Spidey's.

The Human Torch put his hand out, and Spidey shook it.

"When your poker buddy decides he really does run the world...we'll take him down."

"Yeah?"

"Sure," Johnny said. "Tell you what. He loses it by next Friday, I owe you a Coke."

* * *

**Newport, Rhode Island.**

**Frank Castle.**

It was 4 a.m. and he'd been perched on the roof opposite the brownstone for hours hoping to get a chance. To take the shot.

To plug one right between Parker Robbins' googly-goddamned-eyes.

It hadn't taken much, or long, to track Robbins here. Part of the nice thing about super villains is that they keep making the same mistakes. Keep giving you chances to fuck them up. Like juvie drug runners except less completely regoddamntarded.

It was also the case that it had taken about twelve seconds of waterboarding the freaking Enforcers.

All the Enforcers.

To get the location of Parker Robbins' last game in town. Which turned out to be an oddly-placed condo in downtown fucking high-end Rhode Island.

Who's he been getting kickbacks from?

_We know that already, Frank._

Parker Robbins had also seen fit to resurrect a legion of Castle's old nemeses and get them to hunt down Frank or face certain death. Again.

It was a goddamn stupid plan. And even more goddamned stupid of Robbins to not look in plain sight what he was tearing himself up for looking all over Manhattan.

_Poor fucking Parker_, Frank thought. _Guys like you wouldn't've lasted a goddamn junkyard minute._

Robbins' penthouse was on the top floor of a downtown brownstone. The kind with huge ceiling-high windows with the Frank Lloyd Wright overlapping Prairie-style panes at the corners. Artsy. Bold. Stupid.

Robbins was in the middle of the room, meditating, as Frank brought him into the sight.

When Robbins opened his eyes, Frank's brow furled and he got halfway through a "what the fuck—" before Robbins appeared on the ledge of the building.

Frank brought the sniper rifle up again and Robbins batted it away with a bestial claw.

Frank brought out his sidearm and got a shot in on Robbins shoulder, before that was batted away too.

"You've been busy," Robbins said in an oddly-misplaced human voice.

"You've been trying to kill me," Frank said.

Robbins regarded him a moment longer, then said, "With good reason."

"You work for Norman Osborn."

"Possibly. You work for Nick Fury."

_Jesus_. _Now they're really misinformed._

"I work for me," Frank said. "And while it's on my mind, tell your zombie goons they're goddamn failures. That's why they died in the first place. Didn't have the heart, insofar as criminals like you do, anyway."

Robbins' eyes narrowed and glowed demonic for a second.

"Castle the Philosopher," he condescended. "Hand over your ammo and weapons. Come in from the cold."

"No deal," Frank said and pulled his left-sidearm and pressed it right into Robbins' forehead. Robbins was powerful to have stopped it but didn't. He instead brought his own weapon up and jammed the end gently into Frank's chin. "I'm gonna count to three. Then you're gonna become the saddest piece of shit Norman Osborn ever hired."

"Wait," Robbins said. His expression didn't change and his eyes stayed pathologically still on Frank's own. "Put the gun down."

"No."

"I wasn't kidding. Come in, Frank."

"What?"

"In thirty minutes, Norman Osborn's global operations will cease. This is your chance to not get eaten alive by a fucking demon. If that sweetens the deal at all."

"No."

"Trust me," Robbins said and meant it. "A new order's on its way. One that could use you."

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Norman Osborn.**

He was sitting at Tony Stark's old spot in the conference room, staring downtable at the giant mural of Avengers on the west wall. Staring. Contemptuously. Who did they think they were? Recently he'd begun to believe his own myth. That he ran the world and was within his rights to do and to think so.

Stark? Not so much.

Stark's reach exceeded his grasp.

Osborn shot out a quick little snort and his intercom buzzed. He tapped it lightly, and Victoria Hand's voice came over the other end.

"Sir, you have a call."

"From who?" His face contorted. Anyone who would call him was already in the building or on the HAMMER cruiser.

"We don't know," she said and sounded worried. "The encryption's a mile long and he wouldn't identify himself."

A man, Osborn thought with a piqued eyebrow. He thought a moment more and took a deep breath.

_He wouldn't..._

"Pipe it through, Victoria. On-screen. And kill the cameras in this conference room."

She simply said, "Acknowledged."

He stood and straightened his jacket and ran one hand through his hair. Downtable, the painting of Avengers dissolved into a viewscreen showing static.

The benefits of nanofiber technology. Courtesy of Oscorp, of course.

Then the static gave way to a familiar face.

Osborn's heart sank and he felt blood rush to his face. He clenched his jaw and bared his teeth a bit.

Dr Doom was the face in the viewscreen. He looked like the Holbein portrait of Henry VIII: standing triumphantly against a vastly anachronistic background. An old Italian tapestry that alternated between mustard gold and deep blue hung behind him in what appeared to be an unused vestry.

"Norman." Doom said it simply enough.

Osborn thought the first-naming uncharacteristic and noted the possibility of a Doombot.

"Victor," Osborn said. "What is it? And why did you bother to go through the usual channels?"

"Doom does not hide," the Lord of Latveria intoned. "I have contacted you for one reason alone."

"What's that?"

"As our Ms Frost mentioned in our assembly yesterday, someone means to betray you. I have ascertained his identity and, in the interest of keeping safe your position, am willing to share it with you in exchange for certain political concessions."

Osborn scoffed and sat down, reclining and crossing one leg over the other. "Victor," he said. "If someone was planning to sell me out, I'd have known about it. I just put one of my Avengers in place for almost letting the cat out of the bag. Whatever you have to tell me, I'm willing to bet I already know it."

"So certain are you?"

"Yeah," Osborn said. Callow.

"Very well," Doom said. He looked dark for a moment, before the image faded away.

Osborn felt his stomach wrench again. What does he know?

He sat forward and pressed the intercom for Victoria.

"Victoria," he said and gave it enough of an edge to catch her notice. No response. "Hand"—this one was more forceful. No response. He stood and went from zero to lip-out in a blink. "Damn it, Victoria, answer me!"

"She's not going to answer you, Norman."

He spun around in place.

The voice belonged to Emma Frost. Standing there just inside the open window. Namor floated in to join her a moment later and they both locked on Osborn.

"What the hell is this?!" Osborn barked.

Emma Frost bowed her head slightly so the afternoon sun cast a shadow over her and her Atlantean paramour. She looked...sinister. Dedicated. She didn't move, and neither did Namor. They just stood there.

Stood there as the double-doors behind Osborn flew open, kicked in by a squad of HAMMER agents. Stood there as the agents surrounded both Osborn and the mutant duo. Stood there as the agents levelled plasma-rifles on them.

Osborn backstepped out of the circle, smiling thinly and cocking his head to one side as was his custom.

"Emma, if this is a coup, it's a lazy one."

She raised an eyebrow. And then she was a diamond.

The HAMMER agents turned their weapons away from Namor and Emma. Slowly. In unison. The synchronized shooting team from Hell.

And aimed them at Osborn.

His expression shifted instantly, and he repeated, back at the instantly-pissed level: "What the hell is this?! Stand down, soldiers!"

Namor, still hovering, said calmly, pathologically, "They're no longer your soldiers, Norman."

Osborn bared his teeth. "Namor, you son of a bitch! I gave you what you wanted! I upheld the bargain!"

"The King of Atlantis," he said and hovered toward Osborn, "always makes contingencies."

One of the agents moved forward with anodized black handcuffs in one hand.

Osborn was struggling to compose himself. He pulled his BlackBerry form his pocket, pressed a button and barked into it. "Bob! Sentry! Get down here, we're in trouble."

"He can't hear you, Norman," Namor said. "The building's communication network has been shut down. EMP."

"It is a coup!" he yelled and pointed an accusatory finger at Namor. "And you're the one responsible for it! You and your little mutant whore! I should've known better than to trust you! You bunch of sycophants and psychos!" He yelled into his BlackBerry again. "Avengers! Assemble!" No response. More panicked: "Get your asses in here!"

Osborn was cut off by the sound of a door closing. A simple 'click' from behind him. The sound of a door closing.

He spun in place again. And there they were.

Daken, in his brown Wolverine suit, crumpling the mask in one hand. His eyes were sunken and his mouth turned down in a dour sort of determination.

Gargan, in the symbiote. As the symbiote intended itself to be. A foot taller than everyone else in the room, impractically large muscles. White streaks where eyes would have been, thin slivers for fangs, and a prodigiously elongate and reptilian tongue slithering from one side of the razor fangs to the other.

And Bullseye. In his Bullseye suit. Arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb, holding an Ace of Spades in one of those hands and smiling like a goddamn rat fink.

"Sorry, Norms," Bullseye said. "But not really."

"Lester, you—"

"He's yours, Mac, sic him."

Venom grew another foot in size and breadth and mammoth black claws wrapped themselves around Osborn's shoulders. Then he picked up Osborn and brought him in for closer scrutiny.

"Mac," Osborn said suddenly quiet. Pleading. "Mac, please."

"Sorry," Gargan said in a voice that was not his own. "Your friends made a tender offer we couldn't refuse." More guttural. More...inhuman. "You're out, Norman."

Norman's brow furrowed. And it hit him with astonishing quickness and clarity.

He was sold out. Not even by Moonstone.

It was all of them. They were all out to get him. From day goddamn one.

He had lost before he even got started.

Mistake number one was thinking they could all get along, or at least work together in a non-murderous capacity for a few weeks.

Mistake number two was trusting...

"Oh God..."

Venom set Osborn back down.

Osborn turned around. And there he was, standing where Emma and Namor had been a moment ago.

Doom. In the flesh. So to speak.

At the centre of a row of people all staring Osborn right in the face. Individuals who were in a better place to negotiate now than they'd ever been. And all because he'd seen fit to include them, in one way or another, in his new order.

Emma, with Namor hovering behind her. A couple of Atlanteans with broad gold tridents behind him. The Mole-Man, snivelling behind the folds of Doom's cape, with a few of his gaunt moloids doing the same. Loki, looking luxuriant in the spectacle, with Baldur on one side of her and on the other The Hood, with Madame Masque further afield.

Doom stepped forward

"Look upon the face of your betrayer," the Lord of Latveria thundered. "And surrender..."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	3. Trajectory

**New York. Avengers Tower.**

**6PM Eastern Time.  
**

Victor von Doom stood just inside the windows of the top-floor conference room that Norman Osborn had appropriated from Tony Stark.

Loki stood behind him on one side. Namor and Emma Frost on the other.

He crossed his arms over his chest and straightened his posture. Under the cold steel faceplate, he scowled. For added effect, perhaps, but more likely, because he simply wanted to.

Because conquering Norman Osborn had been slightly too easy.

Because consorting with the mutant and the Goddess was detestable.

Because these unenlightened troglodytic 'agents of HAMMER' were simply being paid by the US Government to be here.

Because none of them knew a damned thing.

None of them could respect the mission.

Osborn put his hands up, slowly, defensively.

The HAMMER agents kept their rifles levelled at his skull. No one moved.

"Now, wait," he said and sounded haggard. "Just wait a damn minute. Don't shoot me."

"Why not," Emma Frost muttered.

Osborn heard it and shot her dirty look. "Because I haven't done anything yet."

"That, Norman," she said, "is precisely why we are here. You haven't delivered anything you said you would. Consider us just jaundiced enough to call in our markers."

"You're forcing me into a stalemate?" Osborn said.

"Yes."

Osborn turned to Doom and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He let out two deep breaths before speaking. "Victor, we can still do this. We can still work together. Neither of us wants a war."

"There will be no war," Doom said, and as he did he raised his head a degree. So he really could get away with looking down his nose at Osborn. "Your Avengers work for us now. This building is now the property of Miss Frost, courtesy of her trust fund. You have no options. You must yield, or face oblivion."

"Now wait a second," Osborn said and held up a single finger as if in delay. "You don't need to go all hostile takeover on me, Victor. If you want to assert your dominance—and I'm to assume that you're finally getting serious about that—then at least let me do some favour for you. Especially if you think I haven't done one yet. Okay?" With his other hand he reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded lengthwise. As he sat he smoothed it out and hunched over it.

Doom was at his side. And Namor.

"What have you got there?" Namor asked.

"It's a list. The top half is what I wanted to change. Heroes I wanted to bring in or shut down—Daredevil, Mr Negative, things like that. The bottom half, as you can see''—he handed it to Doom, who then handed it to Namor—"is place-names."

From behind the trio, Emma Frost: "Whatever for?"

Osborn wheeled the chair around to face her. "Targets."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Oh dear me, shall I repeat?"

"My people culled it from the databanks on that Skrull ship Iron Man pulled down in Central Park on D-Day. They were going to destroy our cities if their little invasion didn't go as planned. There're lists for other countries too. Wakanda, Japan, Latveria."

Bullseye, from the back of the room: "Wasn't this a Jeff Goldblum movie once?"

They all ignored him.

Doom's eyes narrowed and he looked at the list again. "This is what you've been doing in your free time?"

Osborn looked at him and gave a highly derisive, "Yes."

"I see."

Namor: "So what, Osborn? Each of us possesses an arsenal comparable to your Armed Forces. Are you proposing we launch one of our weapons at one of these targets?"

Osborn pointed at Namor and had a gleam in his eye. "Exactly. You want to stretch your muscle, let me help you. I'm going to assume everyone in this room is loyal, so there's no need to mince words. You want this country? Fine. Yours. I'll give you the goddamn keys, I'll lower the bridge so you can get across the moat. All I ask is part of the by-line."

"Your patriotism astonishes me, Norman," Emma Frost said and turned to the window.

Namor regarded her for a moment and then looked at Osborn. "Tony Stark thought he ran the world. Controlled Atlantis. He ended up making my people into refugees. What assurances do we have that your ambition is any different?"

Osborn stood. "I'm not Tony Stark." And he meant it. "And if you think I am, then you should kill me now and spare yourself the betrayal." He added as an afterthought, "or see if Victor will do it for you."

Doom was still invested in the list. After a moment, he handed it back to Osborn, then strolled to the window. The Mole-Man and his squad of Moloids slunk back, clearing a path as they went. Doom's hands were clasped behind his back and he carried his head high, staring wistfully beyond the pane.

The room was silent for a long, tense moment.

"We require a target that will break their spirit," he said, perfectly measured and perfectly emotionless. "Something that, if attacked, would constitute a growing probability of unrest among them. Osborn."

"Yes?"

"Transmit that list to the main screen behind your Avengers mural."

Osborn's brow furrowed. "How did you—?"

"If you please," Doom said.

Osborn's eyes widened to show his doubt and he laid the crumpled sheet on the in-laid document reader next to his laptop. A moment later the Avengers mural faded to white and then was replaced by a digital facsimile of Osborn's document. The top half read:

_--Daredevil (Bullseye?)_

_--Harry  
_

_--Mr Negative_

_--Hank Pym + Avengers (Wanda where?)_

_--Luke Cage + Bucky + Spider-Man_

_--Nick Fury + Phobos (Ares)_

_--X-Men (Emma)_

The bottom half:

_--Washington White House_

_--Washington Capitol_

_--Washington Lincoln Memorial_

_--Manhattan Empire State Building_

_--Manhattan Baxter Building_

_--Manhattan Avengers Tower_

Namor spoke first: "The Baxter Building is too obvious."

Osborn sat back in his chair. "Pick something else, then."

"Seems they weren't interested in destroying infrastructure," Emma said. "This was meant to be a calculated strike at a way of life."

Doom approached the screen slowly. "This list came from the Skrull ship, you say?"

"Yes," Osborn said. "I didn't make it up on my MacBook this morning, if that's what you're getting at."

"I am," Doom said. "And I remain unconvinced." He took a breath.

Osborn wheeled the chair around to face Loki and the rest of the assembly. "Options from the group?"

Emma cocked her head at the viewscreen. "You're suggesting we use a Skrull plot to show the world we mean business?"

"That a problem?" Osborn asked.

"No," she said. "I merely wanted to make sure."

Loki and Doom exchanged a quick glance.

Doom went to Osborn's side and pointed an iron-clad digit at the list. Pointing, unflinching, at the name closest to where that digit landed.

He looked to Osborn.

"There. It is quite naturally perfect. It is the symbol of everything you Americans hold dear, yes?" Osborn nodded. "Then we shall destroy their so-called 'culture'."

Emma: "You're certain of this?"

"Yes," the Lord of Latveria said. "Quite. Osborn?"

"Yes?"

"Leave the rest to us," Doom said and started for the door, sweeping his cape behind him in a grand flourish. "Continue to play your part for your country. And do not interfere."

* * *

**Manhattan. The Lazer Club.**

**Midnight Eastern Time.**

Johnny Storm had finally gotten the courage to go back to the nightclub where the homunculi had beaten him within an inch of his life. 'Course that was like a year ago. And they were cavemen. Couldn't blame cavemen for being themselves.

Johnny Storm's sanguine view of human nature. Another thing courtesy of Ben Grimm.

It wasn't hard anyway. After his beating, Johnny'd later found out that gang of miscreants were career nighthoppers. Once Ronaldo found that out, after prodding the weakest of the group (a little pansy in Buddy Holly glasses and the Urban Outfitters Spring catalogue), he blacklisted them from his club for twenty years. To be thrown out on-sight. None of them ever did jail time, Johnny'd also been told, but that was okay. Their 'fun' was taken away and though he wasn't really into the whole vengeance thing, he supposed it was the best he'd get.

Johnny had the Girl of the Week slung around the crook of his right arm as he walked up the steps into the club. The neon sight was hot pink on an otherwise dark street, so it stood out like a sore thumb. Like some mistake the zoning board had made to put the place here.

And the bouncer looked like a particularly rough trick.

Johnny happened to know him, and not even in that way.

Johnny and Ronaldo went way back. Way back.

This was the big bearded and tattooed fellow that had kept passing Johnny Appletinis on his 21st. Neither of them forgot that night. So when Johnny—one of Manhattan's biggest and bestest celebrities—started coming to a club that Ronaldo not only bounced for but owned...the friendship was an added bonus.

He slapped Ronaldo's back as he strolled in.

"Hey, hey, Johnny Storm! What's happening?"

"Oh you know," Johnny said and played laconic. He was about twenty feet from bedlam; behind Ronaldo lay the foyer and then the dance floor—bathed in the little white dots of a disco ball swirling around in a sea of blue. Damn good light-show going on. "Same old, same old, Ronny." He stood back and pushed the Gal of the Week ahead. "Ronny, Natasha, Natasha, Ronny." Quietly, in her ear, he whispered, "we go way back."

She smiled widely—the smile of a tickled-pink realization—and gave Ronaldo a big hug. Back in the peanut gallery, the folks waiting in line, Johnny thought he heard a couple "awwws" and "gip!" He shot them a wink and rewound Natasha around his waist. Mock-saluted Ronaldo and went on inside.

"You have good night, Johnny!" Ronaldo yelled after him. "Good night!"

And he did.

Two hours and five Long Islands later, and with an inadvertent feel having been copped, Johnny Storm was in a good place. And it wasn't even the good old, usual, cheap stuff either. He had all new cheap moves. And she seemed just nice enough to cut him off at all the right points.

After a block of dancing on a Tetris-dance floor straight out of that awful Travolta movie, they were sitting now in a secluded spot of the club, in two facing chairs upholstered in velour. Just around the bend from the bar. Chatting each other up.

"You ever think about leaving," she asked.

"You mean the FF?" Johnny corrected. She nodded. "Well, sure, I guess. I mean. I could support myself if I ever did. But I don't think I could leave my sis, you know? She probably needs me less than I need her, but I like it there. It's...cozy." He took a swig from Long Island Number Five and smiled. Demure.

She matched the smile and reclined, doing the old leg-slide-up-his-leg bit.

"Just so you know," she said quietly and leaned forward. "That's pretty cute." And sipped from her own Long Island.

He leaned in at that. Moving in for the kill. A millimetre away from her ruby reds, which were just hanging there, smiling, asking for a smacker—in all his time Johnny could still never bring himself to say the dreaded word, 'kiss'. It was more or less like the other word, the L word, which was really just not good at all and—

His mobile rang.

He picked it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. Reed. "Meh," he said and pocketed it again.

Moved in for the kill and connected. In another moment, in the heat of the make-out moment, as if lifted from a High School prom, her hands were on either side of his head. Mad. Taken. With him. The tendons were standing out and they were both into it now.

His mobile rang again.

He pulled out of the kiss instantly, which left her frozen in time for a moment as he fished out his phone again.

Reed.

Johnny sighed and flipped it open. "Yeah?"

"You're at the nightclub, I know, and probably in too deep to even think about coming home, but I need you. Right now."

"Why, what's up?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Tell Natasha to charge the drinks to the Fantastic Four, put her up at the Waldorf for all I care. Just get here."

Johnny simply said, "Okay," and pocketed the phone. He stood and Natasha did too. He gave her a quick peck and then turned to leave.

She was left frozen in time again, before breaking out of it. She looked around. No one had noticed the ditch. She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes. Vastly embarrassed. She made for the door.

* * *

**Colorado. NORAD.**

**2200 Hours Mountain Time.**

Command picked up the missile's trajectory as it cleared Ireland, which was surprising enough for the overworked, underpaid, long-serving and long-suffering staff on monitor duty.

But Command couldn't stop it. A combination of ludicrous speed and outdated technology prevented intercept. Probably, Northcom command collectively figured, external forces.

Ops chief Tannen's eyes widened. His radar screen went from nothing to...something...in seconds. He pressed his headset into his ear: "We have a bogey, repeat we have incoming!"

Technicians across the room: "Where is it?"

"Where's it headed"

"Radar can't keep up with it!"

"Find it on Satnav!"

"Faint lock, sir, tracking across Greenland."

"Countermeasures?"

"Now tracking Newfoundland."

"Scramble, scramble intercept" and "This is NORAD Operations, we have a bogey, trajectory Virginia."

At the White House, the Chief of Staff was already shepherding the President to the bunker.

At 00:12:43 EST, the blip that had been tracking over Iceland, then Greenland, then down over St John's, Newfoundland, then over Derry, Maine—

Disappeared on the radar screen of Ops chief Tannen.

Disappeared right over Washington, D.C.

He sat back in his chair and looked to his left, to his immediate subordinate. "Get me Washington and get me General Ross. Now."

After forty minutes, they couldn't discern a precise launch-point. The Joint Chiefs at the White House had come to a similar conclusion. Their first inclination was to scout Europe; there was no shortage of hostile states there, and since vast areas of Eastern Europe, Russia and the Middle East were blacked out on satcom by the express wishes of a conglomerate of nations, foremost of which had been the Principality of Latveria...seeing and knowing where the silos were in Russia and elsewhere was an expansive and costly project. The map blackouts warranted attention even at the peaceful moments. Even so, they could discern a little bit of the bogey's history.

"London reports no launches. Ditto for Berlin, Paris, Moscow, Beijing."

"Tel Aviv?"

"Negative, sir, no launches."

"Did it come from Iraq?"

"No, sir."

In another ten minutes they had retrograded the trajectory to get a fragmentary point of origin. The missile had come from a patch of unpopulated nothingness somewhere in the Sea of Japan, only to register on their screens when it was over Galway, Ireland. Yet the source was untraceable, but NORAD already had three floors of people working to fix that.

General Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross had been taken off his anti-Hulk team and shifted off to NORAD where he couldn't throw away an entire year's budget on a timeless grudge. It had been cozy, at best, and a goddman insult at worst. They were afraid of what he would do to Banner if left unchecked. And of course they didn't realise that going about stopping Banner was the very essence of being unchecked.

Banner was unchecked enough for the entire world to be concerned about. If not pursued with impunity, he might never be stopped. He might kill us all.

These were the things 'Thunderbolt' Ross dreamt of. Was stirred from already restless sleep by.

By the time Ross rolled into the command centre in his pyjamas and bathrobe, the on-site staff had cobbled together a loose trajectory, FEMA crews and DC police, in league with departments from across the district were on-site to quarantine, redirect, and rescue if necessary. It was almost like getting the NORAD chief in on it was an afterthought. Probably, Ross guessed, it was. For no other reason than who he was.

Standard procedure.

"Alright, I want to know what it was, and don't just tell me a missile, dammit. I want tech specs, the manufacturer, everything. What hit us and is it over?"

Ops Chief Tannen: "We won't know until a clean-up crew gets in there. We can trace it back to the Sea of Japan, though, sir."

"Japan?" Ross asked, blown away. What the hell was it doing taking the long way around? "Why didn't they just blow up Honolulu for Christ's sake?"

"What do you want to do, sir?" Ops Chief Tannen asked.

"Get me HAMMER," Ross commanded. "Where the hell is Osborn?"

"He's offline, sir, we can't reach him or the Carrier on any frequency."

"Find him! I don't care if we have to fly the goddamn Spirit of St Louis to Manhattan!"

Ross scowled and stared at the viewscreen on the wall. Satmaps of DC on one side, a live-feed of the crash site in the main site.

The Lincoln Memorial.

Burning. Black smoke poured almost from the exact centre of the roof. The missile trajectory had been quite naturally flawless. The smoke could be seen for miles; a robust black plume that hovered low around for a few hundred kilometres than carried out upriver into the updrafts and currents.

An otherwise pristine and white structure—it had been built in limestone after all—the mysteriously-fired missile had ruined all that. The blast had destroyed the entire eastern half of the structure, Abe's left-hand-side, and a radius a few meters beyond. The area of effect included the ellipse around the monument, including Parkway Drive to the northwest and part of Independence Avenue to the southwest. Trees and wildlife had been incinerated as far as the Korean Memorial and the Vietnam Wall. The remaining sides of the building heaved out, bloated almost, were cracked either from the heat (less likely) or the simple force of the blast. Fire crews had locked the area down and were at work extinguishing the fire. Inside, the statue of Lincoln was obliterated; the only thing that remained was a charred hunk of the dais on which the stone giant had sat. Everything else was black. Layered with grime and fire.

Ross sighed and just kind of stood there for a moment afterward. Waiting to see if this was some kind of drill. He went to his Ops chief. "Alright. Get me the Secretary of Defense," he said quietly. "Find Reed Richards. Joint Chiefs. The whole deal. I want a vidconference in five minutes." And then he shot around, annoyed out of nowhere, and snorted, "And get me Norman Osborn!"

* * *

**Manhattan.**

**10:15 am Eastern Time.**

Saying it took even five minutes for the news to hit New York was an understatement. It took five seconds. An insomniac in a K Street donut shop at 2am ran down as close as he could get to the burning Memorial and caught it on his Blackberry and promptly sent the video to his entire contact list. The Washington Post had pictures of the burning monument on its site in another ten minutes, which promptly went up to Manhattan and Boston and over to St. Louis, Chicago,

One of which happened to be the copy editor at the New York Post. Who happened to be friends with Ben Urich and woke him up to tell him of the news.

By sunrise, the city's media outlets were atwitter. Incensed. Inflamed. Terrified.

The _Times_ had a picture of Norman Osborn on the front page, asking 'Where Is He?'

The _Post_: 'Pentagon Sources Say Lincoln Mem Gone: Secdef Comment In Afternoon'.

The _Daily News_: 'DC Closed Off: Terror Alert Red'.

CNN's American Morning: "The Government's been very tight-lipped about this, we don't know quite what's going on, we've heard nothing from President Obama, who's been moved to a secure location..."

FOX and Friends: "...expecting to hear from the Secretary of Defense within the hour..."

MSNBC: "...got Homeland Security and the National Guard rolling up and down every street in the District of Columbia. Civilians are encouraged to stay indoors, government buildings are closed to tourists and non-essential personnel..."

ABC's Good Morning America: "...no idea what came out of the sky over Washington last night, but a massive plume of smoke from the Lincoln Memorial could be seen for miles..."

The CBS Morning Show: "...looking at a media blackout here, no one at the Pentagon is saying anything, flights out of Reagan International have been grounded indefinitely, Homeland Security's been turning away vehicles coming into DC including our own newsvans..."

In New York, a thunderstorm was rolling on off the East River. Drenching Avengers Tower in a ceaseless torrent and throwing lightning bolts across the marble-grey sky with reckless abandon. A chill breeze swept up Fifth Avenue. The streets were dead, except for a group of dedicated people behind a police barricade at Avengers Tower, holding signs wondering where Osborn's Avengers were...

Ben Urich, displeased, strolled right up to the front door, past the picketers.

Bullseye was hunched in the doorway, avoiding the rain and half-way through a dixie cup of Dunkin' Donuts Sulawesi Blend when he looked up and saw Urich getting out of the car. He muttered, "Ah Christ," and grabbed the nightstick—which he'd seen fit to rip off of one of New York's Fattest the night before.

"What's going on?" Urich asked. "Where's Osborn?"

"'E's indisposed," Bullseye said with a sick smile. He used a playful and entirely fake Cockney. "I could take a message, see that he gets it."

"Take me to him."

"Sorry, mate. No one gets in this building."

"Damn it, let me in!" Urich started to push his way past Bullseye.

Then Bullseye flicked his wrist and drove the nightstick into Urich's crotch. He fell to the ground with a delightful and anguished yelp. Bullseye crouched over him and poured what was left of the coffee over his head. Salt on the wound.

"Beat it," Bullseye said.

Urich crawled back to his car, and Bullseye went back to his leaning post against the building. He looked at his now empty cup and frowned childishly. Then he looked over at the HAMMER agent next to him—the uptight one with a militaristic sort of 'Full Metal Jacket' 'Born to Kill!' gleam in his eye.

"Go get me another coffee," Bullseye said and threw the dixie cup after the agent, already on his way down the street.

At the roof of the Tower, one on of the tripartite landing platforms that delineated the topmost part of Tony Stark's old building from The Sentry's Watchtower, Robert Reynolds could see for miles in every direction even without the aid of enhanced senses.

In his Sentry suit, with the wind swirling around him and the rain soaking through to his bones and matting his hair to his head in thick bands, Robert Reynolds hovered a foot above the railing. He looked the hundred or so stories down and saw Bullseye pour hot coffee over Ben Urich's head. Across town he saw Daredevil beating up on Mister Hyde in an abandoned Public High School. Further out, in Brooklyn, if he squinted, he saw Captain America's...hideout. Apartment. Whatever Steve's old partner was calling it, and himself, these days.

He could've gone and gotten them and thrown them in prison two years ago.

But he didn't want to.

He didn't want to do anything like that. Not for Tony.

Not for Osborn.

Hunting his friends wasn't why he was here.

_Are they really your friends, Sentry?_

(Shut up)

He looked south. If he squinted, again, he could see DC. Could see the smoke billowing out of the Lincoln Memorial.

He lifted another foot higher. In a flash of light that for an instant matched the sun, hiding behind the grey clouds, The Sentry was gone.

Gone to DC.

He appeared a mile above the city and lowered down calmly, setting himself down at the Lincoln end of the reflecting pool. Behind him, he could see the Memorial itself. The half that was left was cracked and black, barely standing. The fires in the center were still going as a group of firemen moved a hose back and forth over the flames.

He walked over to a group of firefighters in the middle of a confab. One of them noticed him and none spoke. Bob did it for them, offering his hands out slowly and saying, "How can I help?"

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	4. The Superhuman Community

**_Author's Note_**: A couple of notations, first of all, since I seem to be a nut for random cultural gems. The description of Loki below borrows some elements from Ayn Rand's _The Fountainhead_, while The Void's--er, spirit-lifter speech borrows from the end of the 'Frasier' episode 'The Good Son'. Happy reading!

* * *

**Latveria.**

**Castle Doom.**

The Master was in his orrery when the news came in. Carried on a slip of paper in Boris' hand—because it was always Boris.

Boris. Who had been present at the Master's birth. Had been best of friends with his father, Werner. Had watched Prince Rudolfo attempt to destroy their clan and all others in the Latveria he once knew. Watched the Master grow up and eventually conquer Latveria. And in the process, become himself conquered. By pride and hatred....

The wool cap rested forward on Boris' scalp so as to hide his features. The white beard was still visible. The jacket was in wool, as well, and hung loosely on him. In another age—that of his master's youth, and his own he supposed—it was a better fit.

Everything had been.

His joints ached, either from age or from the unseasonable cold Latveria was in the throes of this year. He buried one hand in the pocket on his corduroy trousers and rubbed it against the lining, hoping to work up some friction.

Kept walking.

He did so with a limp these days.

The Master was on the far side of room—the orrery, rather. One that had life-sized models of the planets on in-set orbits beneath the gilded floor tilings. The sun was rendered in bloodstone and bronze, Mercury in compressed iron ferrite, Venus in alternating striations of garnet and peridot, the Earth in aquamarine and onyx. The birthstone coincidence had been intentional and, Boris was told, served an astrological purpose which The Master held dear to his heart. It was a magnificent array. Costly and impressive.

The Master was standing at the Earth, holding a drafting compass over a section of the Sea of Japan.

"Boris," he said and did not move from his calculations. "What have you got there?"

Boris wheezed. "News from your agents, Master." He reached the Master's side, and the Master snatched the slip of paper quickly. He clutched the compass in one hand and looked at the message. Allowed himself a moment to react. Then crumpled the slip and handed it back to Boris.

"It seems," the Master said as he traced an arc over the globe from Osaka to Bombay, "they have made contact in their District of Columbia. Thank you."

"Yes, Master."

He turned to leave, focusing his weight on the old cane as he did. As he reached the ancient and heavy oak door that led out of the orrery, Boris stopped. Looked back at his Master once more wistfully. When nothing else happened—no revelation, no acknowledgement, nothing—he sighed and rolled his dentures around and started walking again.

"Boris," the Master called out from across the room.

Boris looked back a second time, and it was only then that the Master was looking at him. Squarely. "Yes?"

"I shall be leaving for the Negative Zone within the hour." Then he looked up from the globe and his next words were a complete departure. Mellow and precise. Soft and gently urging: "You seem tired. Get some rest," Victor said. "If not for yourself, then...for me."

He set an arthritic hand on the door ringer, an ornate medieval affair in wrought-iron, and started on his way again. In an ethereal and sad voice, he merely said, "yes, Master."

* * *

**The Baxter Building.**

**Reed Richards.**

He hadn't slept a wink. After calling Johnny home last night, he'd stayed in his lab with the television going on one side and the SHIELD radio frequencies going on the other.

At least they used to be the SHIELD frequencies.

He had taken to standing at his lab table. The height was optimal for it, and it allowed it him to get some eternally clichéd 'thinking on his feet' done. He was marvelled he hadn't thought of it before.

There were three screens in front of him. The centre one had the Secretary of Defense staring back at Richards. The left-most had the face of Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross in it, looking unamused as ever. The right-most screen was black. It was also where Norman Osborn was supposed to be.

"And you're sure about that," the Secretary said.

"Absolutely, Mr Secretary," Thunderbolt Ross said. "The visuals should be coming through to you now."

"I've seen them. I've also been down to the site. You ought to be damned lucky no one important was in town when this happened and that they weren't going for the President. Things are bad enough anyway, guys, I got martial law reports coming in from Topeka for God's sake. There wasn't this much trouble when the damned Skrulls rolled into town!"

Thunderbolt: "Can't you override those reports?"

Gates: "Not according to the Law I can't. Posse Comitatus, General, look it up."

Reed cut in: "With all due respect, Secretary Gates, we don't even know who 'they' are yet. Could be terrorists. Could be anything."

"It could be someone from your community," Thunderbolt said.

"That's entirely possible," Reed said. "I know the Registration Act and the Skrull Invasion did little to cement trust in the superhuman community. Or else Norman Osborn might not be where he is right now." He threw a little harshness in at that last bit. The Reed Richards the world knew and mostly loved was infamously tight-lipped when it came to opinions of others—even if those opinions involved a certain bête noire European monarch. Concerning Norman Osborn, though, who Reed was sure was up to something, his opinions could be loosened. In a more scientific criterion, Norman Osborn was and always had been bush league. A third rate scientist with loose standard who liked to cut corners. The rumours about what he did to Mendell Stromm were 20 years old, but they still held some currency. If they were at all true, it meant Osborn had 'old tricks' on which he could rely. And if that was the case, then he absolutely couldn't be trusted. Despite the current flood of favour working against the cape-and-tights crowd. "At any rate, I'll ask again what you want me to do about it, Mr Secretary."

"You can leave Norman Osborn out of it," Gates said and changed gears. "I want to know, gentlemen. The President wants to know. What hit us—is it over—are there more?"

Reed sighed and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He folded his arms over his chest and said, "Mr Secretary, I'm working on that as we speak."

"And how long will that take, Dr Richards?" Thunderbolt said.

Reed looked at the screen with Ross's image on it for a moment. His face was blank but for Reed Richards, such a thing usually implied an insult.

"The Fantastic Four are agents of exploration, General Ross. We explore, we assist, we innovate. If you want to insinuate that we have duties here that we're neglecting, I want proof. Not leads."

"Why you—!"

"Back off, Ross," Gates said. At his own desk in the Pentagon, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "Reed. You figured out the Skrulls. I even got the report from Osborn that you rolled through a couple of different dimensions stopping that Superhero Civil War claptrap. Can you figure this out?"

"Yes," Reed said. Simple as that. "But I have to ask, why me? Why not Osborn?"

"Because," Gates said. "I don't think this was terrorists and neither does the President. I think it was carried out by one of your people. And because you answer your phone."

Gates disconnected.

Thunderbolt Ross leaned forward and stared menacingly—or tried to. "Richards. If you can't figure this thing out, there won't be anything left for you, do you get me? This'll be it. I'd get my ridiculous government salary that another attack is coming. Soon. And if you don't stop it...I'm going to recommend your organization be dismantled and you shunted off to a Canadian Concentration Camp. You understand me?"

Reed was unamused. "General, let me put it to you this way. There are maybe three countries on the planet with arsenals far more advanced than all the bullets and all the tanks you can throw at them. North Korea, Iran, you can handle that. However. If this was the work of, say, rogue Asgardians. Or even the Mole-Man. If any of that becomes the case...what are you going to do? Beg for mercy?"

"You're out of your element, Richards."

"No, General, I fear you're out of yours. If it's a superhuman power that did this—and I don't doubt that's the case...my team might be the only ones capable of dealing with it. All I ask is that you let us. Good day." He disconnected, turning away from the screen and storming toward the exit with a huff.

He went to the kitchen and sat for another half hour drinking coffee.

Sue was sitting at one of the length-wise spots, with Val in a highchair next to her. Playing with her blocks.

"Morning, dear," Reed said and sat at the head of the table.

Sue was lowering the sippy-cup away from Val when she noticed him. "Oh, morning, sweetie. How'd your meeting go?"

"Not well. Ever since Ross took over at NORAD he's been most insufferable."

"Looking for Hulks in all the wrong places, eh?" Sue said and poured more orange juice into Val's cup. "Guess I can't blame him."

"You're right about that." Reed's brow furrowed and he had a mini-daydream as he started in on the coffee. "I went him one better, though. Told him that we would look into the Monument destruction."

"You say that like it's a mistake." Sue said it almost absent-mindedly and ran one hand through her hair.

"Well," Reed said wistfully, "Way I figure, we could use the good press."

And he looked away in a daydream again.

Everything went to Hell. Had gone there. In the past few months. Including Reed's otherwise reasonable forebearance.

Maybe, he thought. Just maybe.

Solving this monument destruction business could change all that.

"Reed."

"What—? Oh, sorry dear. Got distracted."

"I saw that," Sue said and chuckled. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, short of using the time platform to go back and observe the destruction or whatever went on down there, I've got some things in the lab that might be useful for a reconstruction. Old school spectroanalyser might do the trick. Soil analysis, mass spectrometry."

Sue sipped from her own mug of coffee. "This is just another typical day for you, isn't it?"

Reed smiled.

Sue. Sweet Sue.

He looked up. Johnny was standing at the far end of the kitchen, hunched over and wearing boxers with cartoon hearts on them. Utterly oblivious to Reed and Sue's presence. He threw the fridge door open and bent in, fishing the Orange Juice out of the fridge and drinking right from the gallon. He finished it, and replaced it, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and it was only then that he noticed Reed and Sue.

"Oh," he said and scratched his head. He sat tentatively. "Hey."

"Rough night?" Reed asked and made it sound playful.

"Well, y'know, you call me off my date and then there's nothing to do here. Figured I'd stay up and get to work on Grand Thefting some Autos. Franklin helped."

"So I heard," Reed said and poured himself another cup of coffee.

"We conked out at like 2 am," Johnny said and yawned. "Next thing I know, I'm waking up on the couch and Ben's drawing 'pretty ballerina' across my forehead."

"I take it you burned off the ink?"

"Yeah," Johnny said and leaned in. He starting rubbing his arms in the holy-hell-it's-freezing way, and then lumbered for the lounge. "Think I'll go get dressed."

"Probably a good idea," Reed said and smiled.

"Any news about the, uh, unpleasantness last night?"

"Just some idle threats from our friends at NORAD. Actually, when you get dressed, head to the lab. Take Ben with you. We need to be underway in the next hour."

Johnny yawned and said, "yeah okay" and shuffled down the hall.

* * *

**Washington DC.**

**One hour later.**

Ben was piloting. As usual. Reed rode shotgun, Johnny and Sue in the back. The Fantasticar itself had undergone some impressive changes since its last major romp against the all-magical, all-treacherous Dr Doom. Which had been a long time ago. Before the Civil War, just barely before Wanda Maximoff lost her mind and destroyed the Mansion. Well, he thought. Maybe not so long. Certainly it didn't seem too long ago...

Back when Victor threw Reed's son into Hell and possessed his daughter.

It had been a low blow. Even for Victor.

Reed bowed his head and sighed quietly.

Sometimes, not very often, he felt entitled to anger. Even though it wasn't him, he felt entitled to it. His old college acquaintance—the same such one that blamed Reed for all of his misfortunes—had taken his adult life to disproportionately revenge himself on Reed Richards. And while he was at it, the rest of the family.

Victor von Doom was 43 years old. He'd spent the last 20 years a broken shell of a man, emotionally; a titan intellectually, and widely recognized as one of the three most intelligent man on the planet. Of those 20, 10 were further divided into the 'Dr Doom Years'. The big ones. Starting with Blackbeard's gold and ending...

Never.

It never ended.

Just kept pulling everyone into the same cycle of destruction and politics and death.

Reed couldn't blame Victor for his flawed sciences—Victor hadn't known any better at the time. But he could blame him for other things. Sending Franklin to Hell was one. Possessing Valeria was another. Trying to kill T'Challa, or so Reed had been told about a week ago, was another.

Suddenly, he spoke. "You all have the tech specs, right?"

Johnny and Sue said in unison, "Sure do."

"Good. Then no surprises when we land. We get to work clearing away as much rubble as we can and cleaning it up. Ben and Sue, I want you to help the fire crews with whatever they need. Johnny, security detail; they're not letting anyone into the District but I want to enforce that. I want it known that we're there to help, not to take over. That was Tony's job. Not ours."

"Reed." Ben looked at him. The rocky features turned into a frown. "Thought you and Tony wuz friends?"

Reed frowned and his eyebrows bent. He looked angry, except that he wasn't. Maybe a little angry at himself.

"I know," he murmured.

The ship rocked a bit, and Ben said, "Bringin' her down in that clearing close to the Korean Wall."

The Fantasticar hovered to a low level and then dropped the rest of six feet to an abrupt stop. Throwing up a cloud of dirt and debris under the repulsors as it powered down. The starboard hatch slid open with a pneumatic whine, and Reed stepped out. Then Ben did. And stopped in his tracks at the sight of it.

"Jeezus," he said and it was a whisper. He ran one rocky hand over his head, as if to scratch it. "What the hell happened here?"

Reed frowned when he couldn't rationalize any other emotional response apropos of the situation. "Come on," he said and patted Ben's shoulder twice. "We've got work to do."

He stretched over to what was left of the monument and introduced himself to the fire crew in charge.

Sue and Ben slid over on a barely visible platform of Sue's doing, and once Ben was at the ruins, he grabbed a huge slab of marble and bench-pressed it up to see if anything was under there.

Nothing.

Johnny rocketed out of the Fantasticar in a high and steep angle, sweeping around the perimeter a hundred meters above the devastation. There he stayed.

On the west end of the Monument, The Sentry was hovering two meters in the air. His hands were outstretched and his whole body had a thin golden aura around it. Another meter in front of him, an asteroid belt of debris, marble atoms and jetsam hovered. Fallout from the mysterious attack.

He closed his eyes. Focused.

When he opened them again, the pile of debris ahead of him reorganized itself, atomizing into a mirror.

The spade-black face of The Void was staring back at him. The eyes seemed redder than usual. The lips were downturned but not quite into a frown. A blank slate. A mystery...

(Stop it)

_No._

(Who did this)

_Guess._

(Tell me)

_I didn't know you could manipulate molecules, Sentry._

(Neither did I)

(And don't deflect)

Sentry glanced to one side. Saw Ben Grimm's orange and rocky hide stacking slabs of marble and hunks of blocks a couple of feet away from the remains of the monument.

He looked back at the molecule-mirror. The angry snort came out of nowhere. The mirror shattered, no longer held together by his control. He turned around and drifted south. To Independence Avenue.

Ben saw him go and cried after him.

The Sentry didn't respond.

Reed Richards was talking to the FEMA Director, who'd gotten on-site just before the Fantastic Four did. He was an amiable enough fellow, a vast improvement over the old one who didn't last long after Bruce Banner's Hulk-out rampage last summer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert Reynolds, The Sentry, flying away slowly, lowly, toward Independence Avenue. He made a mental note to investigate that further, but refocused his attention on the FEMA Director. Already in progress.

"...so anyway, word is we're expecting Osborn to finally rear his head. Televised statement in the next ten minutes or so. Lucky you got here when you did, Dr Richards, we need all the help we can get."

"Well," Reed said, "We're always happy to help."

In the past few years he'd been able to miniaturise the average spectroanalyser to such an extent that it fit around his shoulders in a satchel-type apparatus. What was once the size of the Apple I computer, circa 1977, was now the size of, say, a paperback _Atlas Shrugged_. It wasn't much of an advancement, and none of the circuitry was sacrificed, but every little bit helped. And anyway, the thing slung around one shoulder like a messenger bag made him look like Dr McCoy—which Sue thought was fairly interesting, so he kept the idea—and on the more practical end, a 'pocket spectroanalyser' was never a bad idea. He was in the middle of patenting it, the royalties of which could pay the Baxter Building land taxes for the next ten years.

With one had he scooped up a teaspoon of soil sample from the pile of ash where the dais had been and dumped it precisely into the spectroanalyser's dorsal tray. Shut the lid, sealed it, and punched a series of keys on the display. Standing, he added, "There we are. My databases are second to none, Director. With any luck, we'll have a result in the next few minutes."

"Thank God for that," the FEMA Director said. "Knew we could always count on you guys. Those Avengers—and not just Norman's new crew, I'm talking the old ones, real old school. Y'know, Thor, Iron Man, all of them"

"Sure"

"A motley crew," he continued, "don't get me wrong, but they were always just a little too out there for me. You guys though. Always liked you guys. And my son just loves that gift shop."

Reed half-smiled. "I appreciate that, sir. I can't say I speak for the rest of my community, but we are trying to get back out there. Do the right thing."

"I'm glad," the Director said as they reached the main site. "Here"—he waved his hands around, gesturing to Ben's pile of stacked marble fragments to Reed's left and a pile of indistinguishable ash on his right—"is sort of a staging area, I guess you could say. I instructed the crews to clear away as much as they could from the main platform but try to keep it untouched. Wanted you to get in there and see if we could reconstruct the weapon."

Reed looked to the smoking pile where the statue of Lincoln had sat not a day ago.

"I don't know about reconstructing the missile that destroyed this place, but I might be able to tell you what it was made of. And where it came from."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Huh." The Director made a face. The eyebrows were raised in a half-surprised way—the 'if you say so' look—and his flabby jowls dropped even more than usual with his jaw slacked. "Well, anything at all is helpful. I've spoken to Defense Secretary Gates and the President and they'd like a verdict on this before the day's out."

Reed kept his eyes on the spectroanalyzer and said, "They want to know if they have to commit troops to this, don't they?"

The Director scratched his head. "Uh. Yeah."

Reed drew a deep breath. "Tell them not to commit anything. As a favour to me. And tell the President I'll call him when I have something." The spectroanalyser gave a sharp, single beep. Finished. "Oh, speak of the devil..."

* * *

**Manhattan.**

**Avengers Tower.**

The media blackout extended to New York City only insofar as none of the majors newspapers knew what the hell was going on. Their sources in Washington, disallowed from entering the city itself and so huddled together at the Lee Mansion in Arlington Cemetery, had promptly quieted themselves. Homeland Security had barred the use of cameras to document the Lincoln site from across the river, but even so, the newsvans were parked and the reporters were on the roofs, yelling into microphones that then routed through the channel stations on Sirius receivers, car stereos and podcasts the continent over.

The same could be said for the situation in Manhattan, except that the NYPD and Mayor Bloomberg had allowed cameras. The protesters that had graced Avengers Tower's front steps earlier in the day—when Bullseye assaulted Ben Urich—were thinner in number. And surrounded by newsvans.

CBS. MSNBC. FOXNews. ABC. NBC. Bloomberg Money. E! The Comedy Channel.

All of them.

Vultures.

Norman Osborn finally decided to come out from his quiescence at three p.m., fully thirteen hours after the destruction of the Lincoln Memorial. His assistant, Victoria Hand, pushed open one of the glass doors that led visitors into and out of the foyer, and out came Osborn. Dressed all in black except for a dark green tie in a Prince Albert knot. He threw his hands up in an offertory and smiled. No one was clapping.

They were too busy sticking out their microphones and getting their video cameras going.

Osborn came to a standing assembly of mics. Still smiling his shiteatingest smile.

"Thank you everyone, thank you," he said and unbuttoned his jacket. "First of all I must apologize for my absence during this time. I've been locked in meetings with important heads of state over the last twelve hours, and I've just gotten off the phone with the Secretary of Defence. Secondly, I know there's been a lot of wild speculation about what's been going on and I want to assure you all that everything that can be done to solve this...is being done. Our best men are on the job, both here and in Washington; the Fantastic Four arrived on the scene about a half-hour ago."

"Mr Osborn!" The first cry for attention came from Sally Floyd in the front row, who shot out an arm with a tape recorder at the end of it. "If I may, just what in the hell happened last night?"

Osborn sighed and shifted nervously from foot to foot for a moment. He looked at Sally. Noticed from the corner of his eye Ben Urich, standing across the street, leaning against a streetlamp and smoking.

"Well," Osborn said and measured it. To sound judicious and priggish. "For reasons that have mostly to do with national security, I'm bound to silence on mission specifics, but what I can tell you is this. The Lincoln Memorial was bombed last night."

The reporter crowd stirred into a rabble. Oddly anachronistic flash-bulbs snapped and mics were again stuck out and the cries of 'Mr Osborn, Mr Osborn' were rampant.

"Please, please. We don't know the culprit yet—the Fantastic Four are on-site doing an inspection and hoping to discern that. As soon as HAMMER and the United States Government knows...all of you will, too." More rabble. "At this time, Homeland Security, in league with the Department of Defense, FEMA and our own HAMMER organization are coordinating a clean-up effort. We ask that you compose yourselves at this difficult time, and for those in the DC Metro area. Please. Remain in your homes. Tend to your families. That's the best thing you can do now."

Sally Floyd again: "What about your Avengers? And just what does that mean—'mission specifics'? Will there be military action taken?"

"As we speak, Ms Floyd, my Avengers are ready for deployment to assist in the clean-up and quarantine and, if necessary, security of the bomb site. This is the reason I gave you these Avengers in the first place. All I ask is the leeway to do our jobs. Until that time, I trust in the good faculties of the American people. Good day."

He turned swiftly and walked back into the building. Hand pulled the door shut behind him.

At the elevator banks, Osborn undid his tie and pulled off his jacket, handing them both to Hand.

"Sentry's already down there, you said?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get the rest of them moving."

"One more thing, sir."

"What?"

Hand hesitated for a moment. "Um. We can't find Noh Varr..."

* * *

**Castle Doom.**

**Loki.**

The Lord of Latveria, her gracious host, had seen fit to give the Goddess of Mischief a suite in Castle Doom's highest spire. Loki appreciated the sentiment, and figured out about twenty seconds after her host left what he was up to. It had been amusing then, and still was. The Lord of Latveria carried a fancy for this new form of Loki's.

Which was.

Vastly amusing.

The chamber itself opened to a balcony on the west end, with gargoyle battlements peering over the market in Doomstadt, a hundred meters below. She stood at the battlement, not moving, and felt the chill breeze sweeping in from the north. And she wondered why he bothered with Medieval historicity for its own sake.

Probably it was a sham. Meant to display Latveria's comeliness to the rest of the world and so sublimate a fundamental and quite different reality. On the surface, the mortal media and the security task forces and the UN inspectors saw a country that resembled Germany circa 1742. The husbandry was Early Modern at best, and the population concerned themselves almost uniformly with trades and craftsmanship.

The Dark Ages had never left Latveria.

The Goddess of Mischief knew better.

Von Doom was one of the smartest mortals on this plane. Not merely the planet, but the entire mortal sphere. His talents were accordingly in service to a far more modern Latveria, far more dangerous. One he kept concealed from his own people. For propaganda. For the sake of appearances. And for their own good.

He was no monster, this von Doom.

She respected that.

She slid off the ermine stole and the green cloak beneath it.

And closed her eyes.

And breathed. Deep. Her shoulder rose and fell with the act and her lungs burned. She stretched her arms further.

Reaching.

Up.

Beneath closed eyes the world went very bright for a moment. And then dark. She opened her eyes. Beyond, Doomstadt and the countryside continued to shimmer in the midnight glow of the stars. She walked back inside.

Went to the mirror.

It had worked.

The body itself was a marvel. Tall, with broad shoulders and perfect dimensions. The face staring back was thin and bold, the jaw sharp and angular with something the mortals called a 'five o'clock shadow'. The skin was pulled tight over the new face. The hair was no longer black as ash, but blonde, contained under the familiar horned helm. The nose was aquiline, patrician. The eyes were deep, and they narrowed when the mouth curved into a smile. A moment ago Loki had been one of the Fairer Sex, as Thor's compatriots might call them. The female of the species, quite irrational and quite mad, but quite brilliant. Quite capable. Loki knew the type; it was the original reason for assuming the form that would be, and indeed was, most appealling to enemy and friend alike. But in this moment, things were different. Better. And the shape that Loki occupied now was different in a decidedly good way. It was like returning to an ancient home; rediscovering an old joy.

He took a deep breath and allowed it to fill every part of him. Revelling for the moment in his own magnificence.

Loki.

The God of Mischief.

* * *

**Washington, DC. **

**What Used To Be The Lincoln Memorial.**

The Sentry was hovering a mile above the Memorial site. He reflected for a moment about how they might build a memorial for the memorial, now. Once this all was over. That's the way things went here.

If he focused, he could hear Luke Cage and the new Captain America in Brooklyn.

Listening to Norman's speech on the steps of Avengers Tower right now.

Luke Cage looking at Spider-Man and Captain America and the rest of that team and saying in a totally serious manner, "Alright. This is how we're gonna play this."

He came back to himself. Sighed.

In the near future, he was going to have to deal with them again.

(Damn)

_You can never be free, Sentry. Can never be free of Luke Cage's Lawbreaker Squad, or the rest of these people who are taking your golden hero moments from you. You came down here to help_

(I didn't get into this racket to help people)

_No, you're right. You got into it by accident._

(Shut up)

_No. Why you're choosing to dwell on this is beyond even me, but I'll indulge your emotional response._

(And what response is that?)

_That you hate them. All of them. Everyone you work with. Everyone in this, uh, 'superhuman community'. And that you don't even do this so secretly. Anymore. You hate them for what they did to you._

(They didn't do anything!)

_Everyone does everything, Sentry, you know this. _

(I wish)

(I could be done with this crappy life)

_...But you can't. Can you._

(I suppose not)

_If it's the same old things plaguing you. Bruce Banner. Lindy. Steve Rogers. If that's what has you in a funk..._

(It is)

_Let go, Sentry. Memories have use, but if you retain them needlessly, they will destroy you. They need to fade. You know this. Especially your memories--good, bad, and vastly ugly.  
_

(I need to leave this place)

_You never will. Not as long as the Sentry exists. As long as you're part of this superhuman community that doesn't even recognize your accomplishments. You'll never be free. Of your life. Your past. You will never get back what you thought your life was going to be. Let it go. Things don't always work out how you plan. That's not bad. Things...tend to work out anyway.  
_

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Seemed to be the style of the time. And squeezed out a tear.

(You'll never say anything that nice to me ever again will you)

_No..._

Then he looked down. Reed Richards and the other three were standing around what looked like a smaller version of a spectroanalyzer. Sentry sighed and lowered himself.

He landed a foot behind Richards, and as soon as he did Richards turned around to see him.

"Robert."

Awkward. "What is it, Reed?"

"I know who did this," he said. Amazed. Confounded by his own discovery.

He waited a moment, then said, "Who?"

With the same look of amazement. Maybe disbelief. Reed said, "The Mole-Man..."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	5. The Uselessness of Ideas

_**Author's Note**_: Aside from tempers flaring in this installment (and how, I must say!), this is the chapter that's probably most laden with shameless references to the comics currently out in the field from the House of Ideas. It discusses the events of _Annihilation _and _Annihilation: Conquest_ as well as _War of Kings_. Dr Doom references a trip to the Negative Zone that ended badly for him and for Annihilus as well (though the issue number escapes me, sadly; a point in the direction would be entirely grateful); The classic_ Death of Gwen Stacy_ comes up, as does Brian Bendis' first arc in _The Pulse_ concerning Ben Urich and one very unfortunate 'Daily Bugle' employee. We worked in Norman Osborn's tampering with Flash Thompson in _Peter Parker, Spider-Man_ #45. The Negative Zone Prison references the beleagured story _Fantastic Four: Foes_ and of course _Civil War_; later happenings have to do with the events of _New Avengers_ 48-50, and the current arc in _Amazing Spider-Man_, entitled 'American Son'. We even managed to throw in a bit from _Wolverine: Enemy of the State_ concerning Logan's, er, fascination with the nation of Japan. Anyway. So much for shameless promotion, Constant Readers. It's the shameful promotions you have to look out for.

One last thing. If you're in any way figuring on an emotional response to our friend Parker Robbins, or the lengths to which I've taken Osborn, or the preponderence of adult language (because let's face it, our personae are getting rambunctious) I'll gladly weather the hate-mail. Character departures aren't first principles, but they certainly do occur as unexpected side effects. Like a bearded lady. Only less totally weird.

* * *

**The Negative Zone.**

**Dr Doom and the Mole Man.**

The Negative Zone Prison Alpha was big enough internally for Galactus to walk through. And not even merely to squeeze. He could walk through it, unabated, leisurely. Of course there were two problems with this. One was that Galactus had never been to the Negative Zone, at least not as far as Reed Richards' records showed. The other problem was one of sheer scale.

The damn thing was huge.

It fused space-age technology and architecture with a decidedly Euclidean layout. The cellblocks were at the top of a rectangular block as long as the Titanic and as tall as the Baxter Building. The central cube in which that structure lay was as wide as Manhattan from Turtle Bay to the Hudson, and as tall as the World Trade Centers had been.

The tech spec gave specific heights originally, but it had been Tony Stark's idea to alter the dimensions so as to mirror the landmarks. Part of an emotional investment, he'd said.

The cellblocks themselves were metaphorical in design, and the only part of the original tech spec that bore Reed Richards' name. There were six of them, in a row, at the top of the column as before, and they ran in a circle. The design was meant to evoke the Particle Accelerator at the Fermi Labs.

Victor von Doom was not impressed.

Several months ago, over a week spent sequestered in his lab, he pulled a Negative Zone gateway out of nowhere. The process wasn't difficult; neither was the arithmetic involved. Since the Zone was characterized by instability, it became simple for the Lord of Latveria to factor that into his equations. The uncertainty coefficient was quite elementary. He suspected long before this that Richards' gateways were always so precise because he was so concerned with getting to the same place over and over again.

The Lord of Latveria had no such worries.

One hardly entered the Zone the same way twice. It was a necessary inconvenience of being able to travel there at all; without an anchor port, the act of getting there dumped a traveller out at a perfectly nonspecific point. There was no quality control whatsoever. One of Doom's Servo-Guard retinues delivering materials had been dumped out too close to a supernova.

And since the anchor port inside Prison Alpha had been destroyed by the conqueror Blastaar...the Lord of Latveria had to make his bread and circuses elsewhere.

Once the gulf was breached, it became a simple matter of homing in on the prison's unique energy signature. Unique because there was no other structure like it in the entire Zone. Because the metals of which it was composed did not exist in the Zone. And because every six Earth-minutes, the conning tower at the topmost spire emitted a primitive radio signal.

Homo sapiens and their conventions...

So he'd made his own gateway. And gone through. And ended up floating in space.

It was little consolation that the space was breathable.

It took him three days to find the planet on which Prison Alpha had lain. Three days that, on Earth, were occupied by the death of Captain America. Six months, a Skrull invasion, and a new Captain America later, Dr Doom was at last in a comfortable position within the Negative Zone.

On his return from Hell, he had been too late to engage the last lord of the Zone in an alliance.

Annihilus had had his guts ripped out by Richard Rider.

So the Lord of Latveria moved to his bronze medal. The new lord of the Zone was an apish dictator named Blastaar, who had acquired dominion after Annihilus' death and, even better, taken control of Prison Alpha after Phyla-Vell had disposed of Ultron and the Phalanx. Blastaar lacked the precision and savagery of his predecessor, but his mind was in the right place. When Doom strolled through the gateway on Baluur, Blastaar had been ready to listen.

Right now, the Lord of Latveria was standing at the outer edge of the first circular cell-ring. Beyond, the mammoth glass windows were shattered and led further to the scorched surface of Baluur's moon.

Richards knew where he was building his prison and still went through with it. Putting his little convicts directly in harm's way.

The thought amused Doom.

The starfield was brilliant and robust. For an unpopulated realm, the Negative Zone was, atomically, robust.

Behind him, the Mole Man stood. Or, crouched. Sort of.

Hidden. Like a terrified mutt.

But that was Harvey Elder's natural state.

A meter or three away, Blastaar stood, legs shoulder-width apart. Arms folded over his chest, itself puffed out in bravado. One of his mephitic claws held a Cosmic Control Rod, glowing dimly in the perpetual twilight of Prison Alpha's vast interior.

"Your conquest was quite naturally flawless, Blastaar, you have my congratulations."

"Your appreciation is noted, von Doom." His face held no expression. "And what of your own conquests?"

Doom's eyes narrowed and he scowled under the cold steel faceplate. "We stand on its great precipice. In point of fact, that is why I have bidden you this visit."

"Is that so?" Blastaar raised an eyebrow. "Have you not laid claim to the Earth yet?"

Doom made a face under the faceplate. Severe distaste. "I am, how you say, working on it."

"A shame," Blastaar said. "Annihilus achieved dominion over this realm in a matter of months. Ultron seized the Phalanx and then went off to his death for his ambitions. I even hear that the Kree are expanding, through no small part of my own doing, though, I must say. Can you believe such things?"

"No," Doom said. "It is, however, your custom to hint at more than you know, Blastaar. I shall thus take you at your word." A silent, awkward moment passed before Doom continued. "My universe is changing, Blastaar. The old boundaries are lessening in value. A new order is rising. I have need of services which you and your newfound power can provide."

"And, eh, what would those be?"

Doom turned in place and so did the Mole Man, so as to maintain his cover. A satellite without an orbit.

"A contingent of your forces," Doom said and turned away from the window. His voice was melodic and measured. "Your authority as Lord of the Negative Zone...in fealty to the glory of Doom."

Blastaar did not move. Merely snorted. "'Negative Zone'. We do not allow that name here."

"Of course," Doom said, rigid. "A quantum spectre of Reed Richards' hubris. My apologies"

Blastaar held his gaze on Doom a moment longer. "Quite so." Doom started walking, brushing past Blastaar's shoulder as he did and eventually widening into a circle around the Zone's new leader.

"I shall finally make good on my own conquests, Blastaar. By a curious combination of misdirection and obviousness my comrade, Dr Elder, has already instigated their leaders to paranoia. With your help, I may secure the endgame."

Blastaar chuckled. "I have learned from my encounters with Annihilus over the years that alliances between creatures are always fragile in their own right. Have I any guarantee as to your honesty?"

Doom stopped and looked at Blastaar. "I learned a similar lesson. Several years ago I attempted to take a device from your predecessor, which, given his tiny intellect and obvious militarism, failed. Today, I renew that search, albeit in a different way. Put another way, Blastaar, you have something I need."

Blastaar laughed again. This time, heartier. "At least you are honest, von Doom. It is refreshing. What do you need?"

Doom turned and simply said, "your Cosmic Control Rod."

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Luke Cage and Clint Barton.**

It was really too easy for them. After months of hiding out, fighting Skrulls and God knew what else, and hiding out in Bucky's workout room, the end came with astonishing suddenness.

The group had been content to sit on the sidelines until recently. Content to see what Norman Osborn's next move would be. Aside from Clint Barton going on national television and baring it all out to a public that would understandably doubt it, they remained quiet.

The biggest proponent of that had been Spider-Man himself. Spider-Man. Of all the people. Spider-Man, who had been plagued by Osborn since about the age of sixteen. Whose life had been ruined on at least three occasions by Osborn.

And now it was Spider-Man's clemency that was keeping Osborn where he was.

Or saving them all.

No one was really sure which.

But when Luke Cage saw Osborn on the steps of the Tower, giving that cock-and-bull bit about national security and staying in your homes and coordinating a defense.

When all of that happened this morning, Luke took it upon himself to do something. Barton was the team leader, but Luke'd had the position before that. So it was very much the case that when Luke Cage stood up and told the group, "this is how we're gonna play this," the group damn sure listened.

Spider-Man and Captain America and Wolverine and Clint Barton got up and followed Luke out.

Twenty minutes later they ewre strolling up Columbus Circle toward the Tower. The newsvans were still around the entrance. No Osborn though.

"Take it easy," Cap said and sounded not entirely sure of himself. "Don't say a word."

"Osborn's mine," Barton said.

Spider-Man looked around. The street was perfectly dead. No way to play this but the wrong way.

Story of his life.

"No," Spidey said. "I'm the one with the history. I think I got an idea that might just shock him into the screw-up we all want. Right?"

Cage: "Sure."

"Then trust me. 'Kay? Cage and Barton, you get him started."

He threw his arm out and a web attached itself to a lamppost across the street. He pulled himself backward and used the triangulation to slingshot around. Landing just above the circular Avengers logo at the top centre of the entrance.

The news crews erupted when they saw him.

Luke Cage, Wolverine, Barton and Cap worked their way to the platform a moment later. Stood at the same row of mics Osborn had not a half-hour ago.

Cage tapped the NBC one and started in. "I think y'all's boss Norman Osborn is gone by now, run down to DC to help out and see what's what."

Sally Floyd. Again: "Mr Cage! Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Bucky Barnes had heard about this one. Under the facemask that made him look like Steve, he shot her enough of a dirty look for her to notice.

Cage answered her: "We're here because we want to help." He didn't sound entirely convincing at the 'help' part, so he added a little more. "We're here because we finally decided to take our team-mate's word. Norman Osborn is an insane man who has this country and all of you wrapped around his little finger and no one seems to give a good goddamn about that."

Spider-Man had a little private chuckle; all the red lights on all the cameras out there meant this stuff was live. Hooray censorship.

"We're here, Miss Floyd," Cage said. "Because you will never convince me—never convince any of us—that Norman Osborn had nothing to do with the Lincoln bombing. He's been working with thieves and killers and you all know it. Barton told you all this. He told you! And you still refuse to believe it. Hell, Osborn probably pressed the button! What the hell is wrong with you people!"

A silent moment passed, where Sally Floyd lowered her mic and her face turned dour and the rest of the media crowd looked each other over. A lynchmob on the cusp of doing its job.

Cage went on. "Look at you! You stand here ready to criticise anything and everything. Anything that might stick out. Doesn't this stick out to you?! Norman Osborn killed a defenceless girl on top of the George Washington Bridge! That was nine years ago—where the hell were your journalistic tendencies then? He killed a reporter from the Daily Bugle—a woman named Terri Kidder who didn't do a goddamn thing wrong—and dumped her body in the Central Park reservoir. He's insane! And you all let it happen!"

The crowd kept silent. Kept staring at Cage as he went.

Right around when he mentioned Terri Kidder, one of the glass doors behind him slid open.

Osborn stepped out. Silently. Held the door open with one hand and rested the other on his hip so the gap between made a triangle.

Stuck his index finger to his mouth. The 'shush' motion.

Cage finished.

Osborn said, "Tell me, Mister Cage, couldn't the same be said for you?"

Cage turned around to see him. Slowly. Wolverine did too and slid his claws out—not a snikt but a slow and methodical and maybe even surprised metallic slide. Spider-Man flipped down to see him, being upside-down.

None of them said anything.

Osborn smiled.

"Come inside, guys," he said and waved them on. "Let's talk."

* * *

**Newport, Rhode Island.**

**The Hood and Loki.**

He was sitting at one end of the dining table when the God of Mischief apparated before him.

The only light was from a single candelabrum at Parker Robbins' end of the table. It reflected, barely, off the bottle of Maker's Mark a few inches away. And the tumbler that had Robbins' skeletal hand wrapped around it. Skeletal. Badly burned.

He took another swig of the whisky and shook his head on reflex as it went down. A harsh mistress.

Robbins heard the voice before he saw her. The voice was...different though. Less sultry. Yes, sultry was the word he used. Less full. More...cold.

"You lost, Parker. Didn't you."

"It wasn't my fault," he said and took another drink. "They had Brother Voodoo. And Dr Strange."

"Strange no longer had the Eye," Loki said. "And Voodoo is a moron. It should have been child's play."

Robbins drew a very pissed off breath and shot it through his nostrils. He stood in a jerky motion and the chair flew out from behind him and landed upside-down. "God damn it, I tried! Give me a break!"

Loki stepped out of the darkness at the far end of the room.

Not Loki. Not the Loki Robbins'd come to know in the past few months. A man with a golden helm, two horns cresting out and up over his scalp, with blonde hair bound tightly underneath. Broad gilded shoulder plates with curving runes in the filigree. The rest of the armor was similarly ornate. A broad breastplate in curving striations of gold and green, with tripolar nodes in silver.

He carried a sword—Robbins couldn't tell what kind—on his left side, hanging heavily in a brass scabbard.

And he was grinning.

"I gave you a second chance," Loki said. A gloved hand wrapped around the sword hilt and flexed. Robbins could hear the damn hide in the gloves rustling. "And you screwed that up. Be a lark and tell me your independent project concerning Frank Castle worked. Did you get him?"

"No," Robbins said. Wrapped his own hand around the Glock at his waist. "He threw me off the roof. Into a dumpster."

"The clemency of crazies," Loki said.

Robbins nodded. Uneasy. "Yeah." Then he changed gears. "Look, I did what I could. You're an Asgardian! Can't you remake the hood or something? Give me another one?"

Loki's eyes narrowed and the grin went away. Turned into a thin little scowl. Vastly unaumused. "No," he said. "That would be a waste of my power, not to mention my time. Although, you've already, how you say, 'pissed away' vast amounts of that. You can't even protect yourself against an ageing veteran with an overdeveloped trigger finger."

"I did what you all told me to do!"

"Oh yes!" Loki's eyes widened at that. Quite mad. "Started a gang war with the one they call 'Mister Negative'. Looking for Zombies in Florida, fraternizing with your 'Madame Masque'. And failing to obtain the Eye."

"How did you—"

"God of Mischief." Loki was unamused. His eyes didn't blink, instead locking onto Robbins. Every part of him was charged. Ready. Willing. "Lesson one is that gods have eyes everywhere, Robbins. You, however, do not. Though it pains me to admit a setback, I must say that my offer of clemency, of a second chance, was wasted." Loki drew the sword. Started walking toward Parker. "How Dormammu ever chose you is, and always shall be, beyond me—although, even Dormammu is, how you say, 'bush league'. Perhaps hubris begets hubris. What say you?"

Robbins threw up his hands and started backing away. A rat in a corner.

"What—what is that?"

"It's called Tyrfing," Loki said and drew it back. "Took me centuries to find it. My people consider it a weapon of great terror. The dwarves made it. They say it will kill a man every time it's drawn. And that it will cause three great evils thereafter. I wonder, Robbins. Without your precious enchantment—without appreciable powers to speak of—how will you fare?"

Robbins kept backing. He lowered one hand and drew his Glock in a flash. Fired off three rounds.

Or. More appropriately.

Loki allowed him to fire off three rounds.

The shots buried into Loki's chestpiece and shoulder plates and left small holes.

Which patched themselves up a moment later.

Loki raised the sword and lowered it.

Parker Robbins hands fell to the ground. Cleaved clean.

"Fortunately for you," the God of Mischief said, "it was forged in fire. So you're cauterised."

Robbins started hyperventilating. Kept backing up. He was convulsing now, but somehow still functioning. Still...alive.

Loki growled and lowered Tyrfing parallel to his leg. He stepped close to Robbins and laid one strong hand on Robbins' chest.

Robbins panicked It was the quiet kind, though. "Don't. Don't. Don't. What. What will Osborn say?"

Loki leaned in and whispered in his ear, low and melodious. "My dear boy. He probably won't say anything."

He put force into his arm, the one on Robbins' chest, and forced the body back.

The window Robbins was backed against gave way instantly, shattering into a million shards that glinted in the moonlight as they fell.

As Parker Robbins flipped over backwards.

Saw the stars and the night sky come into, and promptly out of, view.

His world ended a moment later.

A hundred feet up from Lucas Avenue, Loki saw the body hit the ground and even saw it bounce a little. Hmm. Resilient, that one. No scream, either. Intriguing.

"Mortals."

He turned and slid Tyrfing back into the brass scabbard. Threw a hand in the air and, in a swirling mass of green about him, was gone.

He reappeared in Castle Doom. In the lab.

Waited for 5.024 seconds before the Negative Zone gateway a meter ahead of him winked to life. The threshold looked like an ocean backed against a wall and rippled for a moment as it displaced Dr Doom and the lowly Mole Man.

"Ah," Doom said and strolled confidently down the ramp. "You have arrived."

"Indeed," Loki said. "I've just removed Parker Robbins. He was no longer useful to us."

"I suspect you know where to keep him."

"God of Mischief, Victor," Loki sneered. "I happen to know a little something about keeping and raising the dead."

"And Osborn?"

Loki smiled. "Oh, you leave Osborn to me. I think it is time we move to the next level. Did you acquire what you went in for?"

"Indeed." Doom looked to one side. To the Mole Man. "Dr Elder." He pointed one steel finger at the Mole Man and beckoned him forth. "We shall leave for Monster Island presently. Are your forces in place?"

"Yes," the Mole Man said. His voice was heavy and congested. The long result of a life lived alone, devoid of both meaning and purpose. That the Lord of Latveria saw fit to include him in their latest scheme was nothing short of a pity move. But it served a purpose.

One Harvey Rupert Elder would not see until the very end.

* * *

**Washington, DC.**

**The Fantastic Four.**

Ben was the most incredulous of all. "The Mole Man?" he'd simply said. Over and over again. "The Mole Man?! Come on, Reed! Z'is backwards day or somethin'?"

"It's no joke, I assure you. I've run three different samples through the spectroanalyser and gotten the same result."

Johnny scratched his head and spoke like he was the most moderate of the group. It was a departure. For him. "Well. What do we do?"

Ben pounded a fist into an open palm. "We go to Monster Island and kick his ass! Nobody steps on a monument in my town!"

Reed touched a finger to his lip. His brow furrowed and he looked worried. Thinking. "No," he corrected. "That might just make this worse."

Sue: "We're all thinking it, I'll say it. This isn't the Mole Man. If a giant damn monster came out of the reflecting pool and threw the monument in the river, then I might take it. But throwing a missile at a national landmark? Something he knows will make a splash—no pun intended...I don't know."

Reed stood and slid the spectroanalyser back into the satchel and hiked it up on his shoulders. "We're arguing in circles here," he said. "And I agree with Sue. This was not the Mole Man."

The FEMA Director had been hovering about for the last half-hour or so, chatting up Reed and the rest of them. When the device had dinged and revealed the source of the devastation, the Director was as taken as the rest of them had been. He hadn't been in the circle to get reports from Osborn—and Stark before him—about the state of the superhuman community. Those kinds of reports were made in, and stayed in, the Commission on Superhuman Activities retinue. They went to NORAD and the Pentagon and the President. FEMA didn't have a say in the matter. If they did, it might have saved some trouble after the Hulk's rampage last summer. And the Skrulls...

"What tipped you off?" the Director asked.

"The radiation, actually. It was compatible with samples I'd taken from Monster Island on our first visit there. I knew the island had a nuclear history—the Japanese once tested there, as did the French when they annexed it under Indochina. This was maybe ten years before we got our powers."

Johnny said, "Long time no nukes."

"Precisely," Reed said. "Anyway, I'm not convinced, as Sue said. Bombing something in his home country isn't something the Mole Man does, or has ever done. He's reactionary. This is far beyond anything he's capable of."

A moment. Ben raised his hand. Consciously doing the schoolboy bit.

"Then who was it?"

Reed took a deep breath. "Three names spring to mind. Two of them aren't good."

Johnny and Ben tried to supply names, thinking silently.

It was Sue who piped in. "Victor."

The others looked at her.

"It has to be Victor," she said. "Trust me."

Immediately, Reed turned to the FEMA Director. "Get the President. He's going to want to hear this."

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Norman Osborn and the Avengers.**

They were sitting at the Viking longtable in the kitchen. A month ago, Luke Cage had stood at the same spot and welched on his deal with Osborn.

Osborn and his Avengers would get little Danielle Cage back from the Jarvis Skrull safe and sound, and Luke would sign on to Osborn's new program.

A simple plan, except that when it came time for Cage to bat, he skipped out. Broke a plate glass window, wrecked up a sidewalk. Made himself look like a dishonourable jackass. The only trick was that Osborn knew Cage better.

He'd read the Purple Man's notes on the subject. The metaphor went something like this.

Luke Cage was nearly indestructible but when it came down to it, he was a goddamn softy.

Norman Osborn hated softies.

Had since the fourth grade.

"You know," Osborn said and looked out the window. The sun was setting and casting Manhattan in a disgusting orange. "It's the damndest thing. You and I haven't really had a chance to talk after your little pissing match a few weeks back. Story of my life, I guess."

"I guess," Cage said.

"Anyway," Osborn said. "Back when I was a scientific goody-goody and when your friend Wolverine was romancing his way from one end of Hokkaido to the other, I might not have paid you attention. So wrapped up in my work and my family. And here we are. A couple or ten years later and look at us."

"Get on with it." Wolverine pounded a fist on the table. "Why're we here? Why aren't you down in DC with your Avengers?"

"Because," Osborn said. "I want to soak this in for another time. I wanted to see just how far off the mark Clint Barton really was, and you fellas didn't disappoint. What was it Barton called me? A criminal sociopath? Oh, how pleased was I when I heard that." Osborn turned around. Slowly. "You figure out why I haven't arrested you yet?"

Barton scowled. "We're about to."

"Because, boys and men, this is America. Anything is possible, except throwing someone in jail for no reason—or the wrong reason. This is good news for you, as far as I'm concerned. Habeas corpus is back in fashion—"

Wolverine cut in: "It took a nap during your Registration flap, asshole!"

"—Because of your friend Reed Richards, right?" Osborn said and waited for a response. None came and he grinned and went on. "So it's America. Free speech, right to assembly, all that crap. I get political points every time one of you nutters goes out and says I'm crazy, I really do. Doesn't mean I like it. If I had my way, which is incidentally the world we're working toward, I'd kill everyone who looked at me cockeyed. But this is America and even I don't get that luxury anymore. You, Barton, you get the better part of the deal by going out there and calling me a criminal and no one locks you up for that. You hide behind your goddamn Avengers record and your free speech and you think that's just fine. And since you seem to think that this is the way the world works, I'm going to indulge myself and tell you how stupid you must be. How fantastically myopic, to think you can say that sort of thing just because we live in America. You're goddamn lucky I haven't recommended martial law to the President. Because, and this is important, that is something being considered right now. The only thing keeping your asses from getting thrown in the Raft—keeping your precious democracy from being crunched under my shoes—is my good graces. So don't come down here with your rage and expect me to cower. I don't hide from anyone, and I think you can see that."

Clint Barton stood in a flash and threw the finger of accusation at Osborn. "You killed Gwen Stacy!"

Osborn raised an eyebrow. His head slanted a degree to the left.

He merely said, "Who?"

Perched on the kitchen counter, perfectly quiet, Spider-Man's heart sunk at hearing that.

It was Cap who spoke. "If you wanted to take us to jail, you would have. You want something else."

Osborn nodded and said, "Bingo, and here it is. I don't want you to come in from the cold—because everyone in this room knows that's a stupid idea. So I want something better. I want to catch you in a loophole, and I feel so good about this decision that I'm doing the Bond villain thing and telling you about it in lavish prose. I want to illustrate to you morons just how much this is not America anymore. The Avengers' glory days are over and we all know it. You've spent three years locked in compromise and death. My offer doesn't change the big picture, but it can save you all from the uselessness of ideas."

Cage looked around, then back at Osborn. "Name it."

"Leave it, Cage. Barton. All of you. Drop this shit right now and you'll survive into next week. The alternative is a lengthy and involved media war that you can't possibly win, followed by a swift kick in the ass into a Federal Court for fraud and seditious libel. Among other things. Which you also won't win. Don't you get it? It's my reality now. You're living in it."

"No kidding," Barton muttered.

Osborn shot him a scowl. "I can make your lives more miserable than they already are. If it's a metaphor you want, think of yourselves as salmon swimming upstream. If a goddamn bear doesn't snatch you out of the water, you'll die anyway. What I'm offering is a chance for that death to be painless."

Barton scowled. "You're an idiot."

Osborn's usual dint of madness happens in a zero-to-batshit-in-three-seconds. This time, it was a little slower. His lip starting quivering. And he was almost. Shaking. Then it came.

"You take this offer or leave it, Barton! I don't give a good goddamn about your freedoms! I'm giving you the chance to live, you high and mighty sons of bitches! There's no alternative!"

Then it was gone. Silence followed. Osborn stared daggers at all of them.

"We should have taken you in years ago," Barton said and looked to the kitchen cabinets, where Spidey was clinging. "Spider-Man. Take him in."

Osborn looked dourly at his old enemy. "Yes, Spider-Man, take me in. The world's new top cop, being paraded down to the NYPD by a bunch of goddamn fugitives. Do it! See what happens! Watch your lives fucking end, Barton!"

Another silence followed. Spider-Man flipped down from clinging to the kitchen cabinets. Walked right up to Osborn.

"You want me, right?" he said. "No, I'm not even going to wonder if that's right, because I know it is. I've known since I was sixteen that it's right." Spider-Man turned back to the group. "Guys, can I have a minute with him?"

"No damn way." Barton stood and tightened his nunchuks.

Wolverine slid out his claws and held his arms close at his waist.

Captain America and Cage cracked their knuckles. In unison.

"Please."

Osborn cracked another self-serving and vastly amused smile as the other four left the room. He looked at the security camera over the table. "Victoria, you can cut the audio and video surveillance in this room now. I want a minute alone with Spider-Man."

"Acknowledged."

Osborn looked back at Spider-Man.

And punched him in the chest.

The force of the hit knocked Spider-Man back onto the kitchen table, and he slid to the middle. When he righted himself, Osborn was still standing in front of the window. Comported. Like nothing had happened.

"Geez," Spidey said and coughed. "No, I'll stop myself again and not ask 'what was that for', because I know."

"You always did," Osborn said. Growled. "And you're right." He pulled out the head chair and sat. "For that matter, you were always right, Spider-Man. Your friends just don't get it. You do."

"Let me guess," Spidey said and moved into a crouch. "This is all to get back at me."

"It sure is."

"Then why not just stroll down to Brooklyn and put one between my eyes?"

"Well, because I tried that once. Twice. A million times, Spider-Man. Each and every time—and I mean it, each and every goddamn time—you beat me. I don't know how, but you beat me."

"For the record," Spidey said. "I think this is the most civil we've been to each other in—okay, probably ever. It's such a radical departure that I'm somehow compelled to play along. So I'll ask you a question. Do you want to know how I beat you all those times?"

Osborn sat back in the chair and gestured to Spider-Man with an open hand. Play through.

Spider-Man slid his fingers under the mask at his neckline and pulled up.

The face underneath was rounded. Messy brown hair, deep-set brown eyes and a mouth that looked like a permanent smile, one of the small ones though; the imperceptible, witty kind of smile. Mercury in a red and blue onesie.

Osborn's world stopped for a moment and he went outside his body. His heart started pounding and his jaw. Sort of. Slacked.

He knew the face.

The face.

The goddamn fucking face.

It couldn't be.

Osborn's heart sank.

And it hit him.

"Parker?"

"Yeah," Spidey said. His lips pursed like was going to say something else. "It's exactly what it looks like."

Osborn turned away again. Went to the window. Predictable pattern of behaviour.

He was on the cusp of a(nother) breakdown. Parker could sense it.

"I remember you now. Peter." Osborn asked in a fragile voice. "I...remember you."

Spider-Man stood. Walked up to Osborn.

Peter Parker was 28 years old. And he looked like a war veteran. His eyes had that same kind of haggard mystery to them. He'd seen more than most people. Understatement of the year. Watched Dormammu and Doc Ock and Max Dillon and God knows who else mess with his life in every way imaginable. It was something he wouldn't wish on anyone. Not even his worst enemy.

Who incidentally was standing a foot away from him.

God. The stuff reality shows are made of...

"Look," Spider-Man said. "I can pontificate, too, asshole. You bring out the absolute worst in me, Norman. The absolute worst. Every time we fought I felt the overwhelming urge to just kill you. Electro doesn't make me feel this way, even Frank Castle didn't make me feel this way. But you. You had no excuse and you still don't. You just like hurting people. Calling you a sick son of a bitch is an understatement.

"You asked how I was able to beat you all those times? Here it is, slugger. Consider it an appeal to the California raisin of a heart beating in your chest.

"You loved Peter Parker. More than you loved your own son. It was me who you wanted to grow up and take over. But it wasn't going to happen that way. Peter Parker was, and probably still is, that last bit of your conscience—the last thing that tied you to Harry. And to Emily. Stop me if you've heard it before. I beat you because I'm a better man than you. Because I have things you don't understand. And never will. It doesn't matter a thing to you that Harry's back, too, because he's just another damn tool in your war on Spider-Man. You sick piece of garbage.

"You couldn't kill me before because you had an emotional attachment that I'm pretty sure neither one of us gets. So you moved on to Gwen to relieve yourself of the moral responsibility of having to live without someone you loved. It was a silver medal, Norman, and a goddamn low blow. The fact that I kept fighting you, even after you came back from the dead, means one thing: that I pitied your ass. I tried to save you, Norman. From yourself at first, but eventually I had to flip that around. Had to save my family from you. Because you wouldn't stop, Norman. Not until you destroy me. Not sure I get the preoccupation, to this day, but I'm sure it has something to do with the sunnier parts of life that you don't like to think about.

"You just offered to let me and my team off scot-free while you strip mine the place. I can't let you do that, and you know it. You took advantage of Gwen, you took advantage of MJ. You took advantage of your own son! You're not gonna do that to me, Norman. I promise you that."

Osborn's face was bathed in the afternoon twilight from outside. The light curved around his body. "You idiots," he said. "You could barely stop the Skrulls. And you have no idea what's about to happen. I do! You and Cage's team of street-level thugs can't be bothered with the big leagues. I can! It's my job! Run back to your little life, Parker, and thank God that I'm looking out for us all!"

Spider-Man slid his mask back on and turned for the door.

"You're right, Norman. No one changes. For the first time in years, I get to tell you that to your face. You just proved me right, Norman. I was almost willing to believe you for a minute, which makes me either a sucker or an optimist. Two months ago, you nearly had me. But you just kept going, falling into your old routines and now here we are. The same shit all over again.

"You absolute horror of a human being."

And he was gone.

Osborn stood there for a long while after that. Paralysed. Consumed. Like always. With hating Peter Parker and everything he stood for.

Osborn's phone, in its holder on his belt, started to make a shrill 'ping' sound on loop.

He flipped it open. "What?"

"It's Frost. Go back downstairs. Get up in front of those cameras and you tell them the truth. The Mole-Man blew up the Memorial and you're sending the brand new HAMMER carrier to deal with him. Deal?"

"Of course. The terms are as before?"

"Of course. Goodbye, Norman."

He disconnected.

And made for the elevators.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	6. Emotional Investment

**Author's Note: **here we are once again, Reader, with a couple of continuity notes for this instalment. It draws heavily (well, notably) from events that transpired between the Fantastic Four and the nation of Latveria during Mark Waid's run on the main FF book back in 2003. Seems I just can't get enough of that run. We also found a clever (well, hopefully) way to reconcile events of that FF arc, 'Authoritative Action', with what Brian Bendis did in his miniseries _Secret War_, which recounts Nick Fury's own foray into Latveria in the absence of its, er, beloved monarch—the disastrous results of which led to Fury's leaving SHIELD and going underground from the end of _Avengers: Disassembled_ right through to _Secret Invasion_. Reed's discomfort at the thought of Victor von Doom stems thematically from a conversation he had with Sue on the subject in the aptly-named _Fantastic Four Special_, by Dwayne McDuffie and Casey Jones and collected in the worthwhile _Fantastic Four: The Life Fantastic_ trade paperback. Loki refers to his gambit that occurred in _Thor _#600, where he tricked the god of thunder into killing his own gradfather, Bor, and then exiled Thor from Asgard—which in turn allowed Loki to relocate disgruntled Asgardians to Latveria. Thunderbolt Ross makes mention of the death of his daughter Betty, which occurred in the frame of time between _Incredible Hulk_ (vol.3) #81 and _Incredible Hulk _(vol.3) #110. My thanks also to scurrilous reader Ghost In The Machine, who corrected my error in the chapter before this one; it seems Galactus had indeed been to the Negative Zone for a brief period, but found the worlds there to be somewhat unpalatable. My apologies.

* * *

**10, 000 feet over Salisbury, Maryland.**

**The Fantastic Four.**

"Thank you," the President had said. "Go back to New York and get some rest; there's nothing more you can do here. You've been invaluable to us, Reed. Thank you."

Of course Reed had given a perfectly self-effacing "you're welcome" and gotten back in the Fantasticar—which, he noted as an afterthought, should really be renamed something closer to its vaguely shuttle-like form nowadays—and then they were gone back to New York.

The President meant well. Of course. He always had. But it was usually the case that the ones who meant well manifested their well-meaning as patronizing nonsense.

Reed suspected the real reason the President had sent them home was that he didn't want them to just stroll over to Latveria and fight Victor, as was par for their course.

The last time they'd done that, the UN sort of overreacted and sent Nick Fury to mediate the dispute. The Hungarians had argued that Latveria was ancient land of theirs that Victor had taken and never given back. Of course that wasn't really true—Latveria had existed in its current state since more or less 1620. A gift to the local Romany from Ferdinand II, the Holy Roman Emperor at the time. In gratitude for keeping the Moslems out. Latveria had thus escaped the Thirty Years' War, Napoleon, the Spanish Flu and the Eastern Bloc.

Victor, despite everything else he'd done in his life, had kept the idyllic little countryside safe during his own tenure.

Safe, Reed thought. Hardly. Victor was a tyrant. A despot. Every bad ruler synonym in the book. Yet he presented himself as the opposite. Benevolent. Merciful.

Hardly.

It had been three years and Reed still saw the images vividly. Just before Wanda Maximoff lost her mind to her own powers and murdered half of the Avengers team. And in the wake of a terrible fight with Victor that sent poor Franklin to Hell and made Val a familiar spirit for Victor's channelled magic...the Fantastic Four had gone to Latveria.

Instituted their own rule.

Reed had been as shocked as anyone at discovering the guillotine. And the crematorium.

And the nukes.

Reed hadn't reported those to the UN on his return. Had demolished the quantum gateway that led to the chamber in which Victor had put them. Because he knew Victor would never use those weapons. His arrogance wouldn't allow such a simple victory. Victor liked things to be his way, but if it was too easy, he'd give up. Like he'd given up being Emperor of the whole damn planet.

Reed sighed.

Ben, piloting, gave him a worried look. Reed smiled and said, "I'm fine" and Ben said "Okay, Stretcho" and the shuttle kept going on.

_I told you, Victor._

_I told you. Twenty years ago._

This wasn't a gamma blast, or some spider bite. It was Reed Richards trying to save Victor from a misapplication in his arithmetic. The numbers were wrong. The situation was that simple.

_Why do I continue to bear the blame for this, Victor?_

_Why do I continue to think I was the one at fault when it was you who pressed on and built the machine? The machine that blew up in your face, I might add._

_There was nothing I could do for you after that. It was a combination of the sick little thrill I got. The other half wa that you were so far gone—so wrapped in your misery and hatred—that there was going to be no getting through even if I tried._

_The fact that I did not want to try and save you or ease your pain after that failure meant one thing. I was allowing myself an inappropriate emotional response. Gloating over you. My projects were successes. My face was intact. My life wasn't over._

_Maybe you were right. Maybe everything 'Mr Fantastic' is...exists not to remind myself of my own greatness but to force it on others._

_On to you._

_Maybe I wanted to rub that last little bit of pain in your face._

_But after the explosion, there was nothing I could do to you that life hadn't done already._

_So I moved on._

_Forgot about you. Went on to greater and grander things, as they say. Married Sue. Founded the Fantastic Four. Started something._

_Something you wanted to end._

_Which brings us here. _

_We've known each other for twenty years. Been in conflict for the last ten._

_It's._

_It's just that you were so full of yourself. And I was too. Am._

Reed's arm shot out in a jerky, awkward swing and he punched the dashboard. The anger was uncharacteristic.

Ben looked over at him again. "Stretcho, what's up? Ya been mute the whole time."

"Nothing," Reed said and looked out the window.

"Something," Sue said, from the back.

Reed sighed again. "It wasn't always this way. You know. I hope you know. Time was we'd get embroiled in a fight with Victor and serve him and then come home and that would be that. At what point did I start...feeling this?"

"Point of order?" Johnny said and raised his hand like a fourth-form chum. "I had this conversation with Spidey a couple nights ago and I'll tell you what I told him."

"Oh boy." In the pilot's seat, Ben slapped his hand on his forehead.

Johnny sneered at Ben. "Contrary to what my rocky colleague thinks, I'm actually quite bright when I want to be. And that's not even counting the whole fire thing. Anyway. Spider-Man says to me, he says, 'does it ever end?' and I says 'no, not really.'"

"Poetic," Ben said.

"So that's my Ann Landers to you, Reed."

"That's." Pause. "Thank you, Johnny."

Sue leaned forward and patted Reed's shoulder. "Reed. You're the smartest and gentlest man I know. We've all been fortunate enough to share this wonderful life with you and with a couple of exceptions, no one's blamed you for what happened. We've met great people. Truly great people. But, and this is my point, Victor is the only one. The only one. Who has ever made it his mission to make you feel like a complete and utter failure. He's the one that blames you. For everything. Every time he comes into your life. Into our lives. Every time that happens, he succeeds at making you feel miserable. He capitalizes on the guilt you feel over what happened to him. Hell, he's probably built a machine to suck it out of your soul."

"Gee Suzie," Ben said. "This is the sunniest speech I ever heard."

Sue glared at him with the cute version of the look of death. Her own spin on 'as I was saying'. "It's natural to beat yourself up over what happened to him," she said. "The blame game he's been pulling for the past twenty years doesn't do much for your chances of getting over it. But. Maybe you don't have to get over it."

"I agree," Johnny said in a yelp. Anxious to be heard. "Getting over stuff is overrated." Quieter: "Huh. That's funny, you think things are ever just rated?"

"My fist goin' inta yer face oughta be an NC-17," Ben grumbled.

"Kitty got claws!"

Reed slouched a bit and said, "Sue's right. As usual. It doesn't matter what I think of Victor. Especially since he doesn't think much of me and never has. But I want to at least entertain the idea that he did this. If that's the case, people, then we've got a limited amount of 'shit we can do about it', as Johnny would say."

"Nice," Ben said.

"Any ideas?" Sue asked.

"We can't just stroll down to Latveria." Reed looked around, thinking. "He'd be expecting that, and it would send the wrong message anyway."

Johnny: "So..."

"So we go back to New York. I think I've got an idea. But I need you all to support me on this. No questions asked. Can we agree to that?"

Ben started chuckling. "Stretcho, I been supportin' ya since I tried ta get ya to come to my 'seven kegs in seven weeks' experiment in college. Think I speak fer alluvus when I say this. Haven't come this far to say no to ya. I gotcher back. 'Atsa promise."

"Yeah, me too," Johnny said. "This looks like as golden a family moment as I'll get this month, so I'll capitalise on it and say, 'it's not every day your sixteen-year-old-not-quite-brother-in-law-yet follows you into space on a pile of bolts that you're not even sure about, the horrific consequences of which still get him phone numbers and love mail from all corners of the globe to this day..."

Silence.

Sue looked at him. "But?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. Lost my point. Anyway. You know I'm there."

Reed turned around in his seat. "Sue?"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "Darling, I'm there too. Just don't kill him."

* * *

**Coney Island. Stark Enterprises Central Lab.**

**Namor and Dr Doom.**

"Now this is interesting, isn't it?"

"How do you mean?"

"Osborn gets his power base, summarily strips the old order of its gold lining and sets up his new businesses. That's perfectly acceptable. But why does he leave this StarkTech facility open?"

Dr Doom considered it for a moment.

It was, he reasoned, suitably perplexing. Tony Stark was a wanted man these days—treason or some such nonsense, in so many words from America's Current Occupant. The new executive had been anxious to reverse the mistakes of his predecessor. One of those mistakes had been hiring Anthony Stark as Secretary of Defense. Another had been allowing him to re-start the Avengers franchise against the better, and as it turned out correct, judgments of then-SHIELD commander Maria Hill.

Of course, that was all ancient history now.

Tony Stark was in hiding, along with Maria Hill and Pepper Potts.

Doom's agents had last placed them in Archangelskii, Russia. Far to the north of Saint Petersburg where few things live and even more go to die.

The Lord of Latveria suspected, as he strolled fearlessly down a darkened hallway with Namor at his side, that Stark was one of the latter. Sent to Archangelskii to die for his failures.

Doom could have turned in Stark to Osborn a long time ago. But no.

He preferred knowing. Especially to Osborn's not-knowing.

It was quite naturally sensible.

Namor' slowed a bit.

Heard the voice of Emma Frost in his head. Reaching her psychic tendrils into the deep corners of his consciousness.

_"Yes?"_

_"Dr Elder wants to know where you fled. He fears your hearts, as they say, aren't in it."_

_"We made a slight detour. This is between Victor and me, darling. We're on the verge of a great breakthrough. We will teleport to Monster Island when we have finished here. Now. Get out of my head."_

The hallway ahead of them was adorned on the walls with 12x12 inch white tesserae in hopelessly Euclidean arrangements. Stark's architects had lacked imagination and accordingly made the place look like a hospital. The symbolism was far too obvious. The overhead lights flickered, the last outliers of a dying internal energy system that could no longer afford upkeep or a second glance.

_Amusing_, the Lord of Latveria thought.

They had cast Stark out. Left him with nothing.

He spoke. "The information from your sources is correct, Namor?"

"Flawless," the King of Atlantis said. "The Human Torch would not lie about this."

"You trust him." Doom's voice was gently probing and slightly dazed. The word trust did not enter into his calculations. At all. It was thus natural that he be confounded at Namor's announcement of what amounted to a friendly partnership.

That was Namor's failure. His emotional attachment to the quartet.

Especially.

To her.

"No," Namor said. "But he is nonetheless valuable. He tells me what I want to know. Despite his misgivings about my relationship with his sister."

"Quite so."

They came to the end of the darkened hallway. A bulkhead door stood a meter ahead of them. The words on the surface read 'Vault' in garish red lettering.

Doom raised an eyebrow under the cold steel faceplate. He pointed one finger at the control pad at the door's right side. A moment later a single arc of blue-white electricity arced out from the gauntlet. Fried the circuit board in the pad.

Which sizzled and popped. The sparks rose and fell as quickly and scorched the finish into thin black striations.

The bulkhead door slid open, bisected down the middle, with a pneumatic whine.

The overhead lamps switched on once they entered. A simple motion detector.

"Clearly," Namor said, "Stark did not intend this to be on his tour. He must have had the body moved here after the dissolution of SHIELD." He had deduced the technological backwardness as well.

Doom looked ahead. "Strange that the subject was not buried with the honor they accorded the Captain. Or the Kree captain Mar-Vell for that matter."

"I'm told his ex-wife did not take kindly to the life he chose. She must have turned his body over Stark fully after the Mansion's destruction."

Another meter or three, against the back wall, were three rows of rectangular doors finished in highly reflective aluminium. A latch-handle and smaller number plaque on each one supplied their purpose.

Each of the aluminium doors contained a thin slat, on which rested a body.

Doom's armor collected the temperature data from the individual rectangle chambers and collated it. Each existed at negative fifty degress Fahrenheit.

"I still find it unlikely that Jonathan would yield you this information."

"He shared an adventure with our quarry once upon a time. Reflected upon it with pride, if his emotions are not in question."

"They are not," Doom said. He looked the chambers from one end to the other. Infrared scanners in his helmet were scanning each body and matching the collected data to the specs in his armor's CPU.

A silent moment passed.

Namor lifted a foot into the air, propelled by the mercurial wings at his heels. He crossed his arms over his chest. Looked bored. Possibly angry.

Doom's head stopped at the upper left corner.

"There," he said and pointed. Namor leaned forward, propelling himself to the furthest end of the row. "Third row up, final column. Number 47. Read the plaque."

Namor lowered his head. His eyes narrowed and his head turned to one side. The look of doubt. He looked back at Doom.

"Is this right, Victor?"

"Open it."

Both of Namor's eyes raised and fell. The eternal 'if you say so'. He reached out and pulled the door open. A wisp of cold air curled out and wrapped around his face before dissipating. With his other hand he heaved out the slat on which the body lay. It was as high as Namor's chest, and when he pulled back the sheet covering the body, he had a suitable view of the entire corpse.

At parts it was a skeleton. At others, a severely burned corpse that had lain too long in refrigeration. The scorches ran the length of his body and spiralled around one leg; his chest was a sinewy expression of its former self—thin striations of tissue, blackened by the explosion, covered frigid and blue internal organs. His left arm up to the shoulder, where it connected gruesomely to the joint, was skeletal. Surprisingly white for being dead so long. His hair had been burned off; what remained was a mottled patch of burned flesh and soot collected at the base of a gaping hole in the forehead. Perhaps an errant piece of shrapnel had caught him in the blast. The face was drawn to its physical limit; the jaw was slackened, gaping. Screaming. The eyes were nonexistent; atomized perhaps by the blast that had killed him. In their place were twin pits of blackness—tissue and muscle and nerves seared beyond repair.

Not for Victor von Doom.

For a moment, eternally long and pointlessly brief, he felt himself a kindred spirit to the ravages visited upon this body.

This man.

Scott Lang.

Doom lowered his hand and placed it on Lang's chest. His other he raised, palm up, and the gauntlet began to glow a warm shade of mauve.

"Stand away," he told Namor.

The King of Atlantis obliged. And asked, "What now?"

Doom glanced at him for only a moment and then back at Lang, staring motionlessly, devoted, at the charred body. The precision of a surgeon. "I shall provide a simple reanimation spell. It will restore him to the state at which he existed before his death."

"His physical prime."

"Yes," Doom said. "And when he has been successfully reacquired...we shall have another weapon for our use. Against Osborn. Against the Avengers." Pause. "And Richards..."

Both his gauntlets were glowing now. Namor watched for a silent, interminable moment.

The burn marks were dissipating. Flesh reasserting itself. Muscle fibers apparated from nowhere. From the depths of Victor's magical acumen. And began spooling themselves furiously around his limbs and skull.

Namor scowled.

This was wrong.

Probably.

* * *

**Manhattan. The Baxter Building.**

**Reed Richards.**

He was in his lab again. They'd gotten back about twenty minutes ago and Reed had gone straight in.

None of them were surprised that Reed had been intent on actually talking to Doom. Nor that he had Castle Doom on quick dial. What was surprising was an automatic relay message, forwarded to Richards' screen in the Fantasticar shuttle. The face on the other end had been Boris, Victor's long-lived and long-suffering servant.

And only living friend.

It was Boris who'd said simply, "The Master is indisposed at the moment, Professor Richards. I shall tell him you rang." To that Reed could only offer his thanks and indeed did.

So they were back.

And Reed was in his lab, standing at the lab table as was his recent custom. Ben and Johnny and Sue had stayed with him. The intended effect, Sue'd explained, was to old fashioned strength in numbers. Of course it had never caused Victor so much as a gasp in the past, but it was a show of force worth exercising.

The flat-panel screen on the wall in front of Reed buzzed to life.

It wasn't Victor staring back at them.

It was Loki.

But not as Thor had described her.

It looked like.

The Loki the Fantastic Four were used to. The snide, sly, thin-faced and eminently self-serving God of Mischief that had brought the classic Avengers together in the first place. Only he wasn't wearing his usual green and yellow stocking.

He looked more militant. The golden helmet with upturned horns was the same, as was the permanent stubble curving along his jaw. The armour he wore was gilded chain mail across the abdomen, and alternating squares of silver and gold on the upper cuirass, with herringbone slats and runes in the spaces between.

It was battle dress.

Both of Loki's eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arced slowly. Surprised. Mildly.

"Dr Richards," he said. Slowly. "Whatever can we do for you?"

Reed's expression didn't change. Don't give them an inch. Don't even bother asking where Victor is. Just get to the point.

"Give me Victor, Loki. I don't have time for your parlour tricks."

"Oh Dr Richards," Loki said. His brow furrowed. "You know parlour tricks are all I've got. What can I do for you?"

"I want Victor," Reed repeated. "Not excuses."

"Then perhaps you haven't heard." Loki leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. So it appeared that he wasn't speaking at all, really. "Victor's out of the country on a bit of an errand. Seems he left something of value in Atlantis and has gone to get it back."

"Atlantis was destroyed."

"And as of this morning, when I found myself properly motivated enough to restore it, it wasn't. Any more questions?"

Reed paused. He looked to one side. At Sue. What would have been off-screen to Loki was reality for Dr and Mrs Richards. Her hand grasped Reed's tightly and squeezed. Their eyes met in mutual realization of the truth.

Victor.

With Loki. And Namor. Possibly.

Something bad was about happen. Worse than the Lincoln bombing.

Johnny stepped in front of Reed abruptly. "Did you have anything to do with the Lincoln bombing?" he asked of the God of Mischief.

Loki's mouth curved into a baleful scowl. He leaned in, becoming bolder to the perceptions of the Four.

"I have survived countless re-cyclings of reality. Boy. I have faced down the legions of Asgard, and as recently as one of your weeks ago, I finally bested Thor in a battle of wits. These are accomplishments I do not care to conceal anymore, for my victory is assured and there is nothing any of your feeble human minds can do to stop me. I therefore shall not subject myself to the asinine probing of an overzealous man-child. Or a hideous abomination masquerading as a 'gentle giant'. Or a callow and fearful housemarm with naught but dread in her heart. Or you, Dr Richards. Especially you."

"Where is Victor?"

Loki inclined his head a bit and pursed his lips. Annoyed. Not amused.

"Hidden," the God of Mischief said. Curtly. "You would do well to leave this matter at your doorstep, Dr Richards. Else you shall feel the full extent of my wrath. Good day."

The screen went black.

The four of them stood there a moment longer. Johnny turned away first.

Kicked Reed's lab stool across the room. It shattered the beaker shelf into a million tiny pieces and landed with a poor thud. He shot an angry breath through his nostrils.

"Well," he said. "That was fun."

Reed was typing on his computer now. "HERBIE, are you there?"

"Yes, Dr Richards, what do you require?"

The computer, which Reed had wired throughout the headquarters, was an integrated AI system similar to, but better than, the system that had run Tony Stark's armor. Reed had designed the first iteration of the _Humanoid Experimental Robot, B-type, Integrated Electronics_ in a microbiology seminar at Empire State. It was a testament to microbiology's thoroughly boring nature and Reed's infinite creativity that he'd had the time at all. The specs had sat unused in a closet for ten years. The week after drawing up initials designs, Victor von Doom's interdimensional gateway had blown half of Byrne Hall to pieces. So Reed had been too occupied to capitalize on the discovery at first sight. The result was Henry Pym beating him to the Artificial Intelligence punch.

Sometimes, when not plagued by Victor or the Mole-Man or civil wars or the Skrulls, Reed thought about running diagnostics. HERBIE against Stark's armor. Even against an Ultron model. In the interest of comparative performance analyses and cognitive parallels in artificial intelligences. The resulting report might land him another Nobel Prize.

"You get that conversation?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor. Shall I alert the President and the Joint Chiefs?"

"Yes, and Osborn too."

Sue chimed in. "Are you sure about that, Reed?"

"No," Reed said and started scrawling on a legal pad next to the keyboard. "But if I'm right about what I think I am, Osborn knows about Loki's involvement."

The three paused. Ben: spoke up first. "Y'think Osborn's in with Loki and Victor?"

"I do," Reed said. "And if Harvey Elder has fallen in that hole, too, we need to be ready."

* * *

**Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. NORAD Command.**

**General Thaddeus E. 'Thunderbolt' Ross.**

He sat at a broad conference table, in front of three hi-def, LCD screens. None of the faces looked particularly happy. None of them could.

The screen directly in front of Ross was that of the President of the United States. A trim, tall man with a gentle face and calm sensibility.

To Ross' right was Defense Secretary Gates, who looked like he hadn't slept in days.

On the far left, Norman Osborn.

The President was in the middle of another one of his 'let us choose the moderate path' sleep-inducers: "...So we've all seen the recorded speech, courtesy of Dr Richards, who, we have reliable and vetted accounts, contacted Castle Doom in Latveria approximately ten minutes ago and saw this guy staring back at him. This, uh, this—"

"Loki, sir," Osborn supplied. "His name is Loki. Real old school. Thor's archenemy."

"Right," the President said. "I'll repeat it, if anyone didn't get it and since the package came to my office directly. Here's the deal, guys, as I understand it. Richards calls Dr Doom for a simple chat and Loki answers the phone. Now, you've all seen the transcript of Dr Richards' conversations both with Secretary Gates this morning and with myself about an hour ago. I want to settle this right now that Dr Richards is not under suspicion here."

"Agreed," Gates said.

"Fine," Ross said.

Osborn rolled his eyes. Kept listening.

The President went on. "What is under suspicion is this Loki, and here's why. A couple of miles above the state of Oklahoma, there's this thing floating called Asgard. It showed up there about a year ago, and nothing was done about it. My predecessor was fine with leaving it be as long as Thor stayed out of our business, and I have to say I am too."

"Mr President," Ross said. "If I may interject, we have Tony Stark to thank for this, too. He was content to leave Asgard and Thor to their own devices, and now we've got a damnable situation where one of those super-people is in league with someone we've tried for years to depose."

"The United States government has an agreement on the table with Latveria, and it has since 1956, General Ross." Gates was getting aggravated. "We don't have the resources to stroll in there and plant our flag. Couple of years ago, Reed Richards took it upon himself to do that."

"So did Nick Fury," Osborn said. "And they were both asked very nicely to leave. Invasion's not an option."

"Yes," Ross cut in. "And look where that's put us now. Loki in cahoots with Dr Doom. Even if we add the term 'possibly' at the end of that sentence, it's still too great a risk to take."

The President leaned back in his chair. "Again, we all saw the transcripts. I trust Dr Richards fully. If we commit a military force to this, it can't be in Latveria. After Nick Fury's little soirée, we made a deal with the UN and NATO that no one was to go into Latveria without demonstrable, vetted, ironclad proof. This isn't favouritism, it's the limits of international law. It's a line I'm not willing to cross."

Ross leaned forward and his eyes gleamed savagely for a long moment. "These super-people killed my daughter, Mr President. I hate to burden us all with an emotional investment, but to my mind there's no separation of the two. If it's a recommendation you're looking for, I'll give you all this much. We can't continue to live in fear of these people. How many more Betty Rosses are going to die because some tin-pot mutant with an over-developed trigger-finger decides to blow the shit out of the nation's capital!"

Silence.

"Thaddeus," the President said after a moment. "Calm down." To the other two, he said, " Gentlemen, I don't share General Ross' particular view of things, but I think he has a point. And it pains me to even admit that, so understand, or try to understand, how painful it is for me to have to commit a military force to this. My point earlier, and this is it, is that we can't go into Latveria and I wouldn't want to. It's too risky. But we all read the report from Dr Richards, yes?"

Osborn, Gates and Ross said "yes" in unison.

"Then we agree that the attack on the Lincoln Memorial came from Monster Island."

They all said "yes" again.

"And you all feel comfortable, strategically, with sending an emissary of some kind to Monster Island to meet with the leader, this uh—"

"Mole-Man," Osborn supplied. "Dr Harvey Rupert Elder named himself master of the island about ten years ago, sir. Fitting, too; his only subjects are a bunch of monsters, or so Reed Richards claims. It's all very HP Lovecraft. Sir."

The President looked at Gates. "Secretary Gates."

Gates paused a moment before speaking, in what had been carefully constructed in his own mind while the President spoke. "We need to explore a containment policy, sir. A limited one. One that would...mitigate any chance of reprisal. The last thing we need is another monument in flames."

The President went to Ross, who answered: "Do it. Do whatever you have to do. If Loki's in bed with this Doom character, I think it's in the national interest to know who they are, and what they can do. I, for one, refuse to risk more American lives because of a super-powered arms race. If there's a group of these people working together—and, with all due respect, sir, there's no doubt in my mind of that—then we need to do something about it."

Then the President went to Osborn.

"Absolutely, sir, I agree with Gates and Ross," Osborn said and put on his serious face. The consummate actor. "The HAMMER carrier and the brunt of our forces are on standby as we speak. I can have it underway in five minutes. You have my word, sir, that we'll enter. Detain. Question. But I promise there will be no dead bodies on the six o'clock news. The US Armed Forces are busy elsewhere, gentlemen; let HAMMER take a swing at this."

* * *

**Titan. Final Resting Place of Mar-Vell.**

**Noh-Varr.**

Saturn's largest moon. The only one with a stable atmosphere. Even if it was an endless haze of nitrogen and trace methane. All the rest was...flotsam. Quantum gasses that neither gave hope for life nor chance of escape.

Noh Varr hated to be poetic about it, but it was the truth. More or less.

_Everything in this universe smacks of death._

Off in the distance, somewhere to the magnetic north, Noh Varr heard an explosion. The ground rumbled. Through a thin gap in the haze he saw a volcano throwing out a high plume of water and ammonia.

He looked back at the simple headstone before him.

It had taken months to find out where they'd buried him. The official records had been lost in Tony Stark's master Inbox, it seemed.

But now, Noh Varr was here.

Staring at the headstone half a meter ahead of him.

_Here lies Mar-Vell. Captain of the Kree Imperial Militia. Protector of the Universe._

"It wasn't you," Noh Varr said to the headstone. "You didn't give me this power. A Skrull impersonating you did. Can you even imagine that? A Skrull. Of all the damnable things. Much less, a Skrull imagining himself to be one of us.

"And now I find myself in an untenable position. Uncertain if I even made the correct decision, joining this latest incarnation of your beloved Avengers team. You would doubtless lecture me—if indeed you knew me at all, but you would lecture just the same, given what information I've obtained about you. You would not believe it. The work I've done here. I suspect you never had to deal with the one they call Norman Osborn while you were alive. He runs the Avengers now, and I'm told that this is a bad thing. I've done some looking into it, to confirm my suspicions. Which tells us that I, being usually right about these things, was right about this as well.

"A criminal and murderer is running their premier 'superteam', Mar-Vell.

"And, short of two exceptions to the rule, the rest of them are criminals too."

Noh Varr paused.

He had fled Earth after his conversation with Osborn. After that conversation had done nothing to prove Osborn's innocence.

Certainly no-one was innocent. Noh Varr turned himself away from starting an essay on morality and blame in warrior cultures.

And he had simply gone from one of those cultures to another.

The humans were a primitive, violent race. Forty thousand years removed from the Kree's own status. And yet. And yet so like them, or so yearning to be like the Kree, that their backwardness could be lauded. For they sought to better themselves.

Not like the Skrulls.

Skrulls were fanatically self-serving.

Dishonorable.

Monsters.

The words of the Skrull sleeper Khn'nr rang in Noh Varr's memory. _"They will do anything. They lie to their own people. They'll kill anyone...they have no honor. They don't understand the true honor of these people. Or the Kree."_

And that was true. So very true.

"Their Avengers are criminals," Noh Varr said to the headstone. Dishonorable rabble. Psychologically unfit for battle. And I allowed myself to be taken in by their forgeries."

He thought of Khn'nr again: _"I have learned so much...you cannot let this happen. You! You are here for a reason! We are all here for a..."_

Reason.

Noh Varr pressed a control on his belt; the jetpack on his back sparked to life and lifted him into the air. The Quinjet hovered a mile overhead. Capable of space travel, it would put him back on Earth in an hour. Or less. As he went up, he cleared his mind. Sighed. Breathed deep of the nitrous atmosphere of Titan, and reached out across the void of space.

"Robert, can you hear me?"

Hovering a mile above his Watchtower in Manhattan, Robert Reynolds could indeed. Noh Varr's voice didn't occur as soundwaves in the Sentry's head. It was more...a feeling. Pervasive, yet comforting.

"Yes. I hear you loud and clear. I'm ready when you are."

"Good," Noh Varr said. "I've just passed Mars and will be landing shortly. Is Ares with you?"

"He's on his way. The others have gone with Osborn to Monster Island to deal with what's going on."

"Let them go." Noh Varr was nonplussed. "We're in no hurry..."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	7. Backpedalling

**Author's Note: **I should really stop doing these, in the interest of keeping you all surprised but I just can't resist a couple of continuity notes and shout-out explanations and such. C'est la vie, I suppose. This instalment deals solely with Norman Osborn and the Dark Avengers, who I really haven't had a good excuse to use yet (aside from the mystery brewing with Sentry and Noh Varr), and who I hope I've done an okay job of handling here. This might also be the thematic Empire Strikes Back, though I'm loath to admit it, where things get worse before they get better. The creatures mentioned below all exist in the comics. You can find cognates for them in the pages of _Fantastic Four_ #1 (1961, as if you didn't know) as well as _Mighty Avengers_ #1-6 (2008). We figured out a way to smooth out, at least a little bit, Dr Doom's appearances in the Dark Reign books to his appearances in Mark Millar's arguably-great _Fantastic Four_ run; it's probably best not to think about the discrepancies too closely. Or, if you like, we could always declaim it all as the work of an overdeveloped Doombot. Your call. Victor's flying discs are a sly reference to Ed Brubaker's 2005-6 miniseries _Books of Doom_ (which is utterly worth the read), and I've included a simultaneously sly and shameless reference to another Dr Doom story I did a few years back, 'Behemoth & Leviathan', where Victor and Namor lock horns and everyone gets caught up in that (but you don't have to read that one to get this). The Yeoman Rand character came from the top of my head and it was only on a trip into the Wiki-nethers that I remembered a female number from the original Star Trek series called Yeoman Rand. So maybe that's an homage, except for the Y chromosome in mine. Elsewhere, Daken's, let's call it 'skeevy' behaviour stems from some of his more just-plain-odd-and-that's-coming-from-me methods of getting information both in _Dark X-Men_ book(s) and in the _Wolverine_ book. Try not be squeamish (or, if you're like the guy from INXS and that's your thing, and you feel I've inadequately conveyed the circus of the weird we could work on that too). And if the end of this instalment sounds a little too much like a certain piratical film about a giant squid attacking Johnny Depp...don't tell the lawyers. We'll call it an homage.

* * *

**The HAMMER Helicarrier. En route to Monster Island.**

**Bullseye.**

Osborn stood at the head of a ceaseless assembly of HAMMER troops, each facing out across the hangar, staring mechanically at the wall on the far end. The big ugly gunmetal grey one that read, in equally garish and giant white letters "Stand away from blast zone". He was clad in the usual; the suit and shirt were matching black, from Emporio Armani, the boots Bruno Maglis. The tie was dark green broadcloth, Brooks Brothers, tied in a Prince Albert and held under a shirt collar that seemed to squeeze out Osborn's head.

Standing there looking at him, casing him, it occurred to Bullseye that the whole neckline-too-small thing probably wasn't good for Osborn's blood pressure. Among other things.

Osborn started walking up and down the head of the line. It might have been a more imposing sight if it were Darth Vader and the Emperor doing the inspection, but since Osborn was neither of them, and didn't even really seem to be inspecting his spanking new HAMMER troopers anyway, Bullseye rolled his eyes and settled.

Actually, now that Bullseye thought of it, this was his first time in the spanking new HAMMER carrier. It was certainly an improvement over the old SHIELD carrier and, if the rumours were true about the golden goose piece of shit Stark would have rolled out—had the Skrulls not so ceremoniously assblasted him into nothingness...Bullseye could live with that. The new carrier, of Osborn's design, was, it had to be said bigger than its SHIELD counterpart, which looked like it had been built in, and never left, the 60s. Osborn's carrier looked like a Blade Runner reject. It had the same industrial feel to it. Hallways in bare essentials. Nothing smooth and Kennedyesque in its futurism like the old SHIELD carrier. This was. Darker. Mood lighting or something close to it in the passageways, which themselves were narrow. Undesirable.

Osborn had lifted inspiration for his own carrier from the interior architecture of the average nuclear submarine, or aircraft carrier. Walking inside carried a certain connotation that it was a more cramped version of the Death Star.

On the outside, it was bigger. Clunky. Geometric, in long and slanted rectangles and cylinders at the top of the command tower; forebears of the new advances made in communication technology.

And black. Or maybe, Bullseye figured, a severely dark shade of blue or gunmetal grey.

In the hangar Bullseye and the rest of the Avengers team were standing—well, Bullseye had taken to leaning on one of the titanium support structures and lighting up a Lucky Strike to pass the time. The others—Moonstone in the vastly revealing Ms Marvel suit, stood with her weight focused on one leg and her arms crossed over a rack that ranked on Bullseye's List of Pretty Good Sevens. Gargan in the symbiote was pacing back and forth on Moonstone's far side. The symbiote had gone all bubbly on him; he looked overdeveloped, hyperthyroidic. About to crack. 'Course that was the punch line wtih Mac Gargan. Always was a shallow egg, that one. And now, even the symbiote looked like it wanted to get away from him. Daken was there too, standing between Bullseye and Moonstone. All leaning against the wall like a bunch of goldbricking teamsters.

Every so often, Daken looked at Moonstone, and then over on the other side at Bullseye. A little ocular ping pong game he had, giving each of them the up-and-down and cracking a little self-serving smile.

They happened to lock eyes, Daken in mid-glare, while Osborn was traipsing down the ranks a few yards away. Bullseye scowled and shot a quickened breath through his nostrils. About to go from calm to freak-out in two seconds. It was, with few exceptions, his natural state. He pulled the Ace of Spades from his belt and twirled it around his fingers. Daken kept the gaz lips were curved and hung out for a moment. A hungry animal, except Bullseye knew better.

"Look," he said to Daken. "You don't scare me, Junior. And if it's a fast trick you're looking for, world's got plenty of geishas."

Bullseye pocketed the Ace of Spades and gave Daken the finger.

Daken smirked. Looked back at Osborn. Then his eyes rolled and caught Moonstone in their periphery.

So Osborn was strolling slowly down the line, and his gait combined leisure with a certain uneasiness. As he spoke he removed his jacket. Tie. Shirt. Handed them all to his little Saffron-haired gal Victoria Hand, who was about six millimetres behind him at all times. While that was going on, the thoroughly patriotic components of the Iron Patriot armour hovered around him, summoned by, Bullseye guessed, some damn electrical impulse Osborn no doubt controlled.

So fussy, he thought. People and their...devices. Nothing got the job done like some good old fashioned who-do-you-trust, hubba-hubba-hubba, money money money simple tools. It was probably the parlance of cavemen to use something like an Ace of Spades to kill somebody with, but Bullseye preferred to look at it favourably.

No guns (well, sometimes). No dames (well, not for very long). No trouble (see 'no dames').

Under the also-thoroughly-garish purple and...well, more purple get-up of the Hawkeye suit he'd been wearing for the past month and a half, Bullseye smiled.

He felt like an idiot. But since this wasn't grade school and he could get away with teaching a lesson or twelve to anyone who rained on his parade...he smiled. Felt like it.

Wondered what Moonstone thought of her Kree stallion, Noh Varr or No Mas or whatever the hell his name was.

Really wanted to jam one of these exploding arrows in Gargan's symbiotic little nethers.

Osborn kept talking.

"This is the brass ring, gentlemen. You all know me, which means you don't get the grand General Patton speech. I'm giving you this instead. Aside from my Avengers going out there every so often—putting down the stuff in Latveria and the X-People in San Francisco last week, HAMMER hasn't gotten the chance to flex its muscle. Which is exactly what this is about. You all know the stakes. You all served as agents of SHIELD. You're accustomed to risk. Well, here's your chance."

He was in full Iron Patriot mode now, and holding the helmet under one arm like a General and his cap. He was wearing the shiteating smile again, Bullseye noted; the one that revealed damn flawless pearly whites and could probably land him on the cover of People.

If not for the crazy.

Bullseye narrowed his eyes. Wondered if Osborn knew, remotely, just how many fucking people were after him. Not even after his job. Just him. Probably—honestly—if he was smart as Bullseye suspected, he had the idea in mind.

Osborn put the helmet on, and his voice went all Soundwave: the vocoder scrambled the particulars of his speech and gave it a tinny, rumbling edge. He spoke "We are going to Monster Island, and we are going to show the Mole Man we mean business. HAMMER! Assemble!"

Bullseye rolled his eyes and started to walk away. As he did he slapped Daken's ass. Two could play that game, and since it was one of those things Bullseye felt entitled to be part of it. When the be-mohawked little bastard shot his head toward Bullseye and gave a surprised look, Bullseye chuckled and blew him a kiss. Near the access stairwell, safely out of distance, he cringed and said, "Bastard."

Osborn had retreated to the flight deck. Alone. He didn't feel the wind, for the Iron Patriot suit did an admirable job of deflecting it around him. What he saw instead was video-screens.

The suit's software still ran on the StarkTech model. This meant that when Norman opened a channel, the armor interface rationalized the multitasking capability to the user's mind as a series of screen appearing in a field of blackness, with Osborn staring at them all. Currently, the system brought up only two screens.

One was the President of the United States.

The other was Defense Secretary Gates.

It was Gates who spoke first, at which point Osborn wondered if Gates always looked this harried.

"You're almost there?" Gates asked.

"Yes," Osborn said. "Satcom reports a minor weather disturbance, probably fog, nothing we can't deal with. Other than that, we're all set.

The President spoke next. Typically calm. "And you're sure this plan of yours will work, Norman? If it doesn't, we're going to have to think of something better."

"Trust me," Osborn said and smiled. "It'll work."

Gates was silent, almost muttering to himself: "It better."

"Maybe a rehashing is in order," Osborn said. "Per the arrangement with the White House and the United Nations, as we decided this afternoon. My people land, we parley with Dr Elder and he accepts full responsibility for the attack. The IAEA will conduct a search in a few weeks time to verify the presence of, or lack of, weapons on Monster Island. And we never speak of it again."

Gates leaned forward in his chair, half a world away in Virginia, and tapped his fat fingers on the desk. His face looked heavir, drawn south somehow by the ravages of concern. Maybe he'd keel over from the stress, Osborn thought.

"If you fail," Gates said.

"I won't."

"If you do." Gates was unabated. "I have to put this out there, that we can't protect you, Osborn. We've been content to let you go at your own pace as long as you get results. I've spoken to our internal agencies. FBI, CIA, even the goddamn National Park Service. They all agree that if you can get a sworn statement from this Dr Elder guy, then we can get him back here—or to The Hague for war crimes."

Yes, Osborn thought. That'll just step on all the wrong toes. "With respect, sir," he said. "Tony Stark tried to do that with Dr Doom after that Venom bomb business a few months back, and Doom was able to stroll out of it more or less untouched. I think we shouldn't extend ourselves to wild wishing like throwing this Dr Elder in jail automatically. He is an American citizen after all. That probably stands up to Geneva."

"You're suggesting we get the statement but don't incarcerate him," the President said.

"Yes," Osborn said. "He's an American citizen, sir. I don't think it would serve any of our approval ratings to just cart him in. Especially since hasn't been in our hemisphere since Carter was farming peanuts in Savannah."

Gates cocked an eye. Then he said, "Norman. Just do what you can. I think I speak for the President when I say this: we had to concern ourselves constantly with your predecessors violating international law and avoiding incidents, but that didn't stop them."

"I understand that, sir."

"So don't screw this up. We don't get to have luxuries like backpedalling, not after the year we've had. There are tons of people leaving me voicemails asking for Elder's blood, and for yours too for some reason, and the only reason I haven't handed you over to them is because I trust you. So, Norman. Can you do this thing, and what assurances do we have?"

"A wise man once said that he didn't believe in the no-win scenario, Mr Secretary, and neither do I. And my men are highly trained. I'll contact you when we have him."

And he closed the channel. The armour interface reverted to a real-world view through the helmet lenses, polarised slightly to reduce the glare coming from the ocean below. He pressed the release hasps on the styloids and pulled the helmet off.

So he could see Monster Isle, coming up in the distance, with his own eyes.

* * *

**Castle Doom.**

**The Cabal.**

Namor, as ever, hovered a foot in the air just behind his lover, Emma Frost. He had taken an interest to her after their initial meeting. So great an interest in fact that whenever the Cabal had met up to and including this point, they entered together and left together. And did other things together.

Victor von Doom suspected it had something to do with Namor's proclivity for blondes.

Standing at his lab table and scrawling notes and coordinates onto the notepad, which rested in the small amount of free table space before the far edge curved round the electron microscope, Doom scowled.

And spoke. "Osborn is a fool."

Loki, the first to do so, said, "Aye!"

Frost and Namor, and even the Mole Man nodded slowly.

"And an even greater one if he suspects any of us to follow his churlish designs on conquest. Are we agreed on that matter?"

"Yes." Loki again. "How many of us actually know this Norman Osborn? Hands up." None raised. "Really? Oh dear." His expression then changed from absent-minded to serious. "That tells me the following things. That we entered into an alliance with a person we did not fully understand. That this person had made many and great promises and has yet to deliver on those."

Namor uncrossed his arms and cracked his knuckles. "We should have killed him in the Tower, when we had the chance."

Doom turned from his lab table and walked past Namor, heading for a pair of heavy oaken doors with a wrought-iron ringer.

"No," he said. "Only now has his usefulness outlived itself." He pulled one of the doors open—ancient bolts creaked on rusted hinges. Beyond was a narrow and dark corridor circling down on a spiral staircase. Frost went in, followed by Namor close behind. Then the Mole Man.

Loki was the last to enter, after which Doom heaved the door back closed, following the group down a spiralling staircase.

Loki chuckled as they descended. "At this point, he is powerless to stop us. The Hood is dead, their government teeters. And you've resurrected your, ah, ace in the hole, Victor?"

"Yes," Doom said.

The staircase came to an end, and Doom pushed forward to lead the group down a dim hallway. Three torches on one side of the wall, made in wicker and giving off muted orange glows, were the only other thing in the darkness. At the end of the hallway was a flat metal bulkhead door and a control panel built into the wall to one side.

Doom pressed one hand on the plate and spoke. "Valeria Kristoff Zorba Abraxas One-Four-Two-Two-Naught-Five."

He lifted his palm a moment later and the bulkhead door slid open.

"Servers," he said. "Run the sorting algorithm on the castle defence systems, scramble and reassign new release codes. Deploy Servo-Guards into the countryside and activate Bot 14 to act as my proxy. They shall maintain order in my absence. The castle is not to be compromised."

The computer, hardwired throughout the castle, released a single metallic 'ping' through speakers hidden behind the stonework walls and an oddly pleasant voice said "Acknowledged."

Ahead of the group, over a stonework balcony at which Doom stopped to survey the reaching darkness, lay a bank of open-faced vaults, reaching into the darkness beyond. Each of the vaults contained an exact copy of the armour the Lord of Latveria was wearing at this moment.

Doom's armour vault.

Doom pressed a button on his gauntlet.

From the farthest stretch of the vault, out of the darkness, came a simple silver disk, hovering under its own power. And then another. Thin titanium supports ran vertically from the disk, which served as a standing platform, and terminated in a similar ring which lay at waist-level. Safety, after all.

It was a recent iteration on one of the Lord of Latveria's oldest designs. A simple one, a trifling matter. One he'd designed to ferry him and precisely one other passenger from Doom's mountainside monastery. Where he had learned the successful fusion of science and the mystics. And begun his conquest. To Latveria. Where he came to rule. The design had changed little from its first use, differing only in that the platform allowed up to three users.

"From here," he intoned, "we shall witness the final destruction of Osborn's power fantasies. And the end of his insignificant reign."

Loki, Doom and the Mole Man boarded one. Namor and Emma Frost, the other.

Doom turned his head a degree in Loki's direction. "If you please."

Loki raised one hand.

In a swirling gewgaw of green energy, the twin platforms were gone.

Relocated. Teleported. Across time and space.

They reverted a mile above Monster Isle, a volcanic outcropping in the middle of the Philippine Sea. A thousand miles northeast of what had once been the Atlantean colony of Majora.

Sensors in Doom's armour confirmed what Emma Frost's mental scans and Loki's psychic channelling discerned.

Osborn and his HAMMER carrier came into view, two miles away. The afternoon sun burned brightly, a descending orange half-circle on the horizon.

Doom turned to the Mole Man.

"Dr Elder. Call your creatures."

* * *

**The HAMMER Carrier.**

**Norman Osborn.**

They were in the control room on the main bridge when the radar ops tech shot of his chair. "Somebody!" he yelled and looked around feverishly. Osborn was at his side almost immediately and the technician laid into it. "We just picked up a whole bunch of movement directly beneath the Carrier. Seismo scales are off the charts."

Hand asked, "Could it be volcanic? An undersea eruption?"

Osborn leaned over the station, focusing his weight on the hand on the ledge and laying another on the tech's shoulder. Calming him.

"I don't want to take any risks on the ship getting damaged. Take us up to a safe distance away from the water."

"Roger that," the radar tech said. Next to him was yeoman Rand, a thin little twentysomething with a grease mat under his field helment and a drawn face, to whom he said, "Resume flight level."

The yeoman complied. When he entered the coordinates into the station's computer and initialized the sequence, the carrier shuddered for a moment under its own weight. It was trying to lift but.

Wasn't.

Osborn scowled.

"Sir." Yeoman Rand looked at Osborn like a lost damn puppy. "Should we try again?"

"No," Osborn said. "Don't run this thing to hell, we just got it going. Maintain this level. Are the communications working?"

Rand picked up the service phone.

His shoulders slumped and he set it back on the hook. Sad. "Static, sir. I'll try the short-waves."

"Good." Osborn looked over his shoulder. "Victoria. Get the team, get them to the flight deck. And three squads to help."

Ten minutes later, there they were. Bullseye, in the Hawkeye suit stood balanced on the bow. Peered dangerously over the side at the swirling blue marble of the ocean below. Hocked a lugie into it and was sad when he didn't hear so much as a ker-plunk. He frowned and turned back to the group.

Osborn was on his BlackBerry, oddly enough, talking to the command bridge.

When Bullseye started paying attention, Osborn was in the middle of another pre-flip out rant:"...Then get some techies down to the engine room and reboot the system! It's got to be technical."

The carrier shuddered again and rocked forward steeply. Bullseye, on instinct, pulled an arrow from his quiver and strung it tight on the bow. He looked at the vastness of the sky around them. Expecting some damn thing to decloak. Antsy for a damn fight.

The carrier rocked again.

The hull groaned. One of those Whoville affairs, the start-low-then-grow kind, where it was guttural and then wormed its way up to a shriek. Nails on chalkboard type stuff.

Then dropped from the safe flight level. Landing a hundred meters further down.

Sensors in the radar tech's station reported that the waves were slapping against the keel. He read the readout, and shot from his chair. Made for the flight deck.

The jolt of the fall had been not unlike an elevator jumping up or down a floor. Osborn's stomach had leapt into his mouth. Bullseye felt his balls shrivel for a second as it was happening; the arrow flew out of the quiver, no longer held there by his strength, and arched into the ocean harmlessly. Moonstone was the first to recover. She got to one knee and looked ahead.

Monster Island was close. About a half-mile away.

She shot into the air to get a quick survey, and then she saw them.

Two black smudges on her field of vision. Not smudges. Squat geometrics in mid-air, just outside the corona the setting sun cast around Monster Isle's prominent volcanic cone.

She squinted. There they were. Not even trying to hide.

Dr Doom and Loki and the Mole Man on one sliver of a floating platform. Namor and...Emma Frost?

Loki blew her a kiss.

She looked at the flight deck, a hundred yards below. And shouted.

"Norman! Get your ass up here!"

He looked up a her, squinting and frowning in uncomprehension and slowly put on the Iron Patriot helmet.

Moonstone had landed and was storming toward him. "Damn it, put on your long range sensors, we've got company!"

The carrier jolted to one side, throwing everyone to the deck. The hull groaned in six deep staccatos.

Then the Moloids came. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

The benefit of an insufficiently developed cranial lobe, which meant a correspondingly small brain, meant that the Moloids were little better than slaves. Mindless drones who did as told. Their physical strength left much to be desired but they made up for it in sheer numbers. And grotesqueries. Thin, hunched affairs, the Moloids were phenotypically indistinct from one another. Gaunt yellow appendages, bulbous black eyes with thin lids. Razor sharp teeth. Quick reflexes. Probably, their master had been of late dabbling in the eugenic arts.

Bullseye staggered to his feet and looked over the edge of the carrier again. They were coming out of the ocean in legions. Stacking on each others' shoulders, making a ladder of themselves and climbing up. And up and up.

Army ants. About to devour a fucking carcass.

_Jesus._

He pulled an arrow and got a bead on the head of the rising column. And fired.

And he kept firing.

On the port side of the carrier, the Moloid columns were higher. Daken was with Osborn, in full armor, and Moonstone. His claws slid out and he stretched his shoulders. Arms. Waiting for them.

The first few came quickly and the rest did not stop. It was a siege engine, with the topmost Moloid reaching deck-level and launching himself into the air, flipping mid-air in an ornate gymnastic and landing behind one of the HAMMER agents—who was really just too slow to do anything but watch himself get slashed alive by the vicious little vampire cutting into his gullet.

Daken threw himself into an oncoming group and started hacking away.

Osborn blew the heads off a charging Moloid squad, and when that was done, got on the horn and sounded general quarters.

Moonstone launched into the air and down the bow, where five more columns were climbing their way up. Three she managed to knock back; the shrivelled little bodies contorted and fell back into the ocean harmlessly. More came. She threw out her arms in a flying-V in front of her and made a wide arc around them, vaporizing a few with energy blasts. She got in close to one column and when a few enterprising Moloids decided to take a slash at her, she kicked them away, blew one's head off. They fell into the ocean like the others had.

And they kept coming.

Midway back on the starboard side, near the command bridge, one of the Moloid columns had snaked all the way up to the communications room. The Moloids with their thin arms and high pain threshold and razor sharp talons clawed their way in. Yeoman Rand never had a chance.

Bullseye and Venom were back to back now. Gargan had eschewed the Spider-Man charade five minutes ago after devouring half a Moloid and vomiting it back up. He was, in the words of Bullseye, 'Hulked out' now. The symbiote enlarged to massive proportions; the muscles were bulbous and pseudo-veins curved beneath the surface. Gargan was beastly and had a Godzilla quality to his fighting. Beating some away, grabbing others in one hand and devouring some as a lesson to the others. It didn't work.

They kept coming.

Smoke was billowing from the command bridge now. The security staff on duty when the Moloids had cut into Yeoman Rand's neck had emptied entire rounds on the invaders and summarily blown the machinery and stations to hell.

At the bow, Moonstone was doing her damndest to keep them away. She had gone from one-to-one to focusing her energy blasts on the Moloids poring from the water. She put her hands together and fired, and the energy was boiling the water in another second. Moloid carcasses were fried instantly and drifted away from the herd lifelessly.

Then a shadow fell across her.

She turned and kept one hand vaporizing the Moloid column.

The shadow belonged a..giant. Sort of. Orange. Thing.

Moonstone shot into it, pummelling its stomach. And she cased the damn thing.

Wings as long as the damn carrier was wide. Three heads, each with gaping amphibian mouth and huge, dead eyes that listed in their sockets. Squat feelers were on each head, above the eye-sockets, and roved around, searching vainly for anything and everything. It had cloven hooves. And when it flapped its wings, it threw out a gust and seemed to labor under the weight of doing so. Like it was too heavy for itself. Indiscriminate. Probably she guessed, it was a young one. And had the corresponding recklessness.

She kept punching.

It kept roaring. The primordial kind of roar that signalled both pain and rage.

One of the Cyclopean front hooves knocked her away.

Into the sea. A group of Moloids crowded her a second later and started slashing.

On the flight deck, Osborn was blowing away rank after rank of oncoming Moloids with his repulsors. The problem lay in that he was a nominal user to the Iron Patriot suit.

Tony Stark had built it in a cave with a box of scraps, if the briefs from the ancient SHIELD archives were to be believed. He had overseen every detail, tech spec, circuit and machining process of every Iron Man suit from the golden goose he wore when the Avengers first fought Loki, down to the biotech one he made for himself after going all Extremis.

Osborn had no such luck.

Once upon a time he'd had a suit of his own. Nowhere close to an Iron Man armor, but it got the job done. Even if the Daily Bugle editorial board had insisted on printing every _Green Goblin and Spider-Man Terrorise Midtown_ story with a _Halloween Comes Early_ subline.

So he was doing the best he could.

A couple Moloids had snuck up behind him and slashed into the boots, killing those repulsors. The upside was that the defence-shock next the armor threw out was enough to scare them away, and Daken'd lopped their heads off a moment later.

But Osborn was stuck. Unable to get airborne. Unable to call for help. The communications tower, he could see, was in flames. A high arc of smoke rolled out of the windows and carried up into the sky, before catching the jetstream and becoming a thin black plume heading east. He looked toward the carrier's stern and the Moloids were heading further up in roughly symmetrical lines. The geometry of the hive, Osborn thought, and kept firing.

A Moloid jumped on his back. He gasped and flipped it over and jammed an armoured fist through its face. Turned around and saw more. Vaporised them too.

Venom, all hulked out and stumbling around the deck batting the damn Moloids away like a poor bowler, ambled in front of Osborn. This allowed him a respite.

He took a knee. His head moved around wildly, casing the joint. The armor kept pinging and saying 'danger' every goddamn three seconds. He slapped his helmet at the right ear and a channel opened. On the other end—

A moloid dived for him and he threw out a hand. Clutched the fucking thing in his hand and crushed its throat. And threw it aside.

On the other end of the line would be Victor. Namor. Loki. Parker. One of fucking them!

"Goddamn it, answer me!"

"What is it, Norman?"

It was Loki.

"Goddamn it, what's going on here?! Why are these things attacking me!?"

"We have overcome your debilitating problems, Osborn," Loki said and sounded like a goddamn mechanical soldier an emotionless piece of— "Good-bye..."

"Loki! Loki goddamn you, get back on this line! We can do this! Let me help you I can still—"

A Moloid tackled him and drove him to the deck. Then another got on, and another and soon he covered with the fucking mongrels.

They were tearing at the armor. Shearing it off, and it made that horrible sickening sound that aluminium foil does and Osborn suddenly felt very exposed.

And he kept thinking of Peter Parker.

One of the arm coverings was off now and he was still batting at the Moloids wildly. Spit and rabid foam were spewing from his mouth and covering the inside of the helmet. He screamed.

Ripped the fucker off. Screamed again.

Screamed Parker's name.

The Moloids were hauling him to his feet and he was still fighting them, blowing a couple or three away with his only remaining repulsor. The others were dragging him toward the bow and he was still fighting his damndest. A mental patient unwillingly admitted.

He kept screaming, but it wasn't at the Moloids.

Or Loki.

He was yelling for Peter Parker.

The Moloids kept slashing at him. At the armor. One dug its razor claws into his cheek and then he really lost it.

He was foaming at the mouth. Tears were streaming down his face. His hair, what parts of it weren't matted to his head in blood and Moloid blood, waved in the afternoon breeze.

"PARKER!"

He was hoarse. Jammed one elbow into a Moloids face, shattering whatever their fucking equivalent to a nose was. Grabbed another by the neck, crushing the innards again, and whirling it around and knocking the other little bastards away.

And they kept coming.

And then a shadow fell over Norman Osborn too.

The behemoth towering from the waves...was probably standing on the ocean floor. The hide was scaly. Medieval armour on a goddamn Lovecraftian horror. The plating was green and yellow iridescent like a wasp's abdomen. The eyes were huge and white and had no pupils. In a half-conscious, half-mad state--which was as it turned out, business as usual for Norman Osborn--he was seeing it all in slow motion.

The beast's massive arm swinging down.

Smashing into the Carrier's flight deck.

Splitting the plating with horrible strength and undying fury. Throwing everything into chaos.

The decks below shattering under the weight of the colossal appendage. Storage tanks rupturing and spilling out fuels. Bodies falling into the watery chasm between the two shattered halves of the carrier. The gas stores exploding and sending a fireball down the central corridors which exploded out of the flight deck near the control tower.

Bullseye flying into the air from the beast's attack. Then falling limply into the ocean. Along with the rest of the brand-ass-new Helicarrier.

This was the last thing Norman Osborn saw.

Up on the silver platforms, hovering a thousand meters from the carnage, Dr Harvey Rupert Elder was laughing. Cackling. Lost in his own dementia.

"Yes!" he was crying and clenching his fists and waving his little Gandalf walking stick around. His face was rounded jowls curving up like a damn pug. Revelling in his own magnificence and at the sheer destructive willpower.

Of his 'babies'.

Under the cold steel faceplate, Victor von Doom registered no emotion. In another life he might have indulged himself the weakness of feeling the death and destruction that had just taken place. No pity. No worry. Such things were beneath him. Beholden to others, weaker, younger.

He turned slowly to Namor.

Namor looked lost in his own thoughts.

Loki, though.

Loki was beaming.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	8. Kenning

**Author's Note: **Since I do believe this might be the only story I've ever written without a particular ending in mind—which is either really good or really bad; your call—I decided I'd take this instalment as a bit of an intersession and go inside our people's heads. It's a stylistic deviation that I'm fond of: the psychological infodump, if you will. And it gives us a fine breather after last chapter's unpleasantness. Regarding Loki, as well, for those of you that have pieced together the degree to which I'm aping Stephen King here, this is the point at which we see him making something out of nothing—out of everything. So I've attempted to put parts of Randall Flagg (the villainous drifter-sorcerer from _The Stand_) into our God of Mischief. The result has been a maybe-not-so-slight deviation from the Loki we all know and love. Getting rid of the green and yellow onesie was step one. Step two was making him into an art collector, a walking exhibit of attitudes and archaeological tokens forgotten even to the Asgardians. The idea is thus two-pronged: that he collects these things for some broad mystical purpose, but moreover because they represent the spectrum of Scandinavia. It's an almost Brainiac–level obsession with finding and keeping the history of a region intact. In himself. Scary stuff. The inscription on his chest-piece is the Old Norwegian transcription of the 13th stanza in the Younger Futhark Bjarkan rune poem. If someone out there happens to be more skilled in Norse Mythology than I, and takes issue with Loki's mix-and-match marginalia, then I'll gladly weather the corrective hate-mail. At any rate, his affinity for art and archaeological tokens seemed a natural if priggish development. He wears them as a point of pride, perhaps. Or envy.

* * *

**San Francisco. **

**Emma Frost's flat.**

Of course she called it a flat. The trucks rolling down Castro Street were lorries, and the elevator she took to get up here was a lift. The old school Titanic kind with the lever operation and the accordion gate in gold plating.

It was a rich neighbourhood. She'd asked for no less. It wasn't a matter of high maintenance, or particular tastes. It was an _ars gratia artis_ manner of behaviour. The inflated Anglophilia. The money. The scintillating wit.

And she had never gotten Jean Grey off her mind.

Mostly it had to do with Scott. Never getting Jean off his mind.

That had come to an end about a week ago.

It had been brewing for some time, too. Since time began, if she was going to be perfectly honest with herself and yet eschew the intricacies of the 'Xavier's Dream' idea.

_Everyone knows that sharing the planet hasn't been mankind's defining attribute, Charles, thank you._

_(You're welcome) _

Everything since Genosha had been a pox on the House Xavier Built. When Emma actually sat herself down and thought it all through, it made the most sense to do what she was doing now.

She didn't believe in Osborn's power fantasies. Had seen a million just like them come and go, mostly in the form of Nathaniel Essex. And Weapon Plus. Osborn was thus no different. A tiny insect of a man who thought he ruled the world.

She joined his little armada to prove him otherwise. And about three hours ago, a battalion of the Mole Man's most lethal monstrosities had done just that.

Whatever the mutant community was. Whatever it intended itself to be. Wherever it was going, wherever it had been.

It was now immaterial.

Wanda Maximoff had seen to that.

Emma had wanted to kill her. Oh so very badly. But that was a long time ago, she supposed.

What mattered now, though she was eminently loath to admit it, was survival. They were fighting for their right to live. The poetry of the situation was lost on Emma, but none of the gravity. In her nightmares, the ones that didn't consist of Kitty Pryde reaching into Emma's mind from across the void, this was what worried Emma Frost. What kept her up at night. What had driven her to the Cabal but more importantly to Namor.

Who had promised them safe haven in Atlantis. Who had promised the death of Daken for his actions last week.

Emma sighed.

She was lying on her back, hands clasped tightly and properly over her breasts. The mattress was firm and painful but she didn't care. A draft from the open bay window howled through the room and bit at every part of her skin.

It was all a mess.

And for some reason she allowed herself to feel it. It wasn't always this way.

Four years ago, Genosha was blown sky-high, its every living thing incarcerated, its entire existence wiped clean. Except for her.

She had survived.

Because of Cassandra Nova, to be sure, but survived none the less.

Emma was like that.

And she would survive this. Of that she was sure.

She rolled over and cast a slender arm across Namor's chest. Flexed her digits and worked them into the deep musculature on his chest. Feeling the thin strands of muscle, and the heat beneath them.

Namor wasn't Scott. Not in temperament. Not in looks. Not in bed.

Not at all.

Perhaps that was why she had allowed the affair to continue. Or perhaps it was because treachery was Emma's natural state.

He lay one of his broad and strong hands on top of hers and squeezed the fingers and took a breath. "You're awake."

_Treachery._

"As are you," she said. "Are you hungry?"

"No. But there is something else."

_Treachery, Emma._

_Kitty telling you to 'rot, bitch'. Kitty asking you if you're disappointed._

_That's Osborn talking. Cassandra Nova talking._

She sighed again.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Indeed." He kissed her.

_God..._

They had returned from Monster Isle three hours ago.

The destruction of HAMMER had been Loki's idea. Supported by Doom and Namor, who wanted to see Osborn fail. And Emma, who was simply sick of his bullshit.

She hadn't seen Scott since then.

Namor released the kiss. An inch from her nose, they locked eyes.

"Did you ever think," he said, "that your X-men are too militant for their own good?"

She waited before responding. Was too smart to think this some manner of joke. "No," she said at last. "Do you?"

"I think of your friend Wolverine." Namor started kissing her neck. "And your old paramour, Summers. They believed in this dream of Xavier's. Coexistence, yes? Wolverine's brand was violent."

"Agreed."

"And you don't think this in any way sets back the community? The message you're trying to convey?"

"Why in God's name would it, dear?" It was an honest question.

"People might start thinking...the militants are the only ones in the community."

She pushed him off at that, and sat up. They locked eyes again and her face looked severe; the eyebrows were thin and black and angled in a very unpleasant way.

"An essay on militarism," she said in a vaguely surprised way. "Coming from you. Of all people?"

He nodded. She lay back down and drew the sheet tight. "If that's what your so-called people think, Namor," Emma said, "Then they're missing the point."

* * *

**Chernobyl, Ukraine.**

**Loki.**

He liked coming here. Here was a city that had lived on the precipice of collapse for years, in a country that had lived on an even greater precipice for decades—centuries—only to finally lose itself and go hurtling over the edge and into the abyss in the past 20 years. A chronological blink in Loki's eyes. He almost wished he could have claimed responsibility for that.

The ceiling was nonexistent; the sky above it mottled with grey clouds that drizzled acid rain every so often as if it couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or not. The walls were fragmented, splitting from the years of neglect. The gape in the wall ahead had been a window once, staring out into the yard; it too had collapsed under the weightlessness of neglect, the window fallen out and the mortarwork lazily crumbling away with no more vested interest in the building. Vines crept in between the cracks in the stonework walls. The floor was cracked and broken in several places; the material undergone great seismic upheavals with the decade of abandonment. Radiotrophic black mold scarred the remnant of the window—outliers of earthly biology's remarkable manner of asserting itself in a devastated area. Wonders indeed never ceased.

He held one hand in a fist at his waist, just below the ribcage.

He was angry for some reason. Couldn't be the usual.

(Thor)

Had to be something else.

He sighed. Reached out into the ether.

Osborn was not dead.

Couldn't be. The Mole Man's creatures had done their job, and Osborn's forces were cosmic dust at the bottom of the Philippine Sea, but there was more to it.

Loki could still sense Osborn. For some reason, the man had a strong presence. If he were dead, Loki would not have even felt the vergence in his psychic scanning. But he did. Static against the infinite penumbra of this mortal plane. Osborn was still 'out there' as they say.

He knew it.

And since he was rarely wrong about these things...yes.

He knew it.

He threw up a hand, the fingers splayed in a grand gesture. Bolts of green energy apparated around him, and he was gone.

He reverted on K Street in Washington, D.C., attired differently.

As one of their vast and inconvenient homeless population.

A tattered green corduroy jacket hung loosely from him, covering a yellow thermal and a yellow hat that had letters for something called 'CAT Power Equipment' on the front. The denim trousers were similarly annihilated; loose and holey and faded in varying circles on the front from acid wash. The boots were caked in mud. But the face was the same: slender, with a patrician nose and an almost permanent little smirk.

The God of Mischief.

The city was dark. A clock at the top of a post stood between two parking meters and read 4:48 am. In the next ten minutes, he guessed, the city would sputter to life.

He started walking. The scant passers-by on the streets did not bother to look at him; one stout 'biker' fellow saw him hobbling down the street and then turned away down an alley just to avoid passing him.

Loki smiled. Kept walking.

In twenty leisurely minutes he'd made it from the K Street Dunkin' Donuts to the World War II Memorial.

The incantation he'd wrapped around the missile had done its job quite well. Kept the thing off their radar screens until it was too late to do anything about.

Above him, the sky was as grey as it had been in the Ukraine. The clouds were still indecisive, but to the southwest he saw a streak of darker gunmetal greyslashing into the lighter side. Working its way up.

He snickered.

There were no crowds. The authorities had turned them all away. He was standing now at the far end of the National Mall, on the Washington Monument side of the reflecting pool, staring down at the half of Lincoln that still existed. The fires had gone out, or been put out, and he snickered at that too.

This was a good high to be on. Nothing could have brought him down. Except for maybe Thor swimming toward him in the pool, but Loki knew that wouldn't happen. Thor was lost in his misery after his exile.

And Loki.

Loki was beyond all of them. Above reproach.

Let them blame him. Let them come for him.

Their precious Hague could not touch him. The Raft, the Negative Zone...trifling cardboard containers.

The roots of Yggdrasil could not hold him.

This was Loki's hour. Come at last.

He turned around and started walking again.

And let his mind wander.

_What is mischief, Loki?_

Destroying Thor. Killing Bor. Killing Odin. Stripping them all of their powers and their places. King of the Gods. Yes. That says it all. Let there be Gods and let there be Kings of them, and very soon there will be Deniers. He was fond of the Deniers, for in them lay a strength for deception, a certain blindness to the obvious and a concordant willingness to manipulation that he enjoyed. He could find himself among their number, the Deniers. Loki of course couldn't be a true atheist in the mould of, for instance, the human called Dawkins, who amused Loki to no end. But he could try. He could be what they called an insincere atheist, being part of the pantheon and yet deriding it for everything it was worth. And it wasn't a matter of corrupting souls—Loki neither needed nor wanted souls to harvest. Leave that to the Lesser Ones. His game was more on the level. More high-minded. He wanted to show them what precisely they were doing. It was illustrating absurdity, which meant he could claim a certain amount of moral high-ground with little authority and little challenge. So he could hold two thoughts at the same time and keep them perfectly away from each other and in working synchronicity, for having diametrics was not the same as implementing diametrics. One could be contrarian for the sake of being contrarian, and perhaps even act on it. It was an intellectual double-standard he willingly indulged, because he knew the simple semantics of it would drive his brothers to madness of explanation and justification.

This was his early model for 'mischief', though he eventually deemed that title too churlish. Inaccurately, it conveyed the true magnitude he desires of his powers. So he had wanted more. Wanted to prove to his brothers that their comrades and mates not only didn't have their best interests at heart but also were intent on destroying the very world in which they all lived. Loki was thus the sane man in the chamber; the only one who could save them from evil godly counsellors and from themselves.

For the Asgardians, much like the humans Thor deigned to serve and protect, were a self-destructive lot.

And of course Loki could deal in platitudes about preservation and redemption all he wanted and smirk and know in his core of being that he was not dealing in simultaneous truth. Could, in his quiet moments, know with some satisfaction that he was one of those duplicitous brothers. Even if his schemes failed, as they often had, he could rely on his own munificence and moulding of truth. Reality and Truth were not synonyms for the God of Mischief. Something could exist and he could still deny it its purpose.

Thor.

So the Asgardians were self-destructive, especially given their abilities. One would not think it possible that a race so obviously aware of its own doom should beat on so heedlessly toward it and so fatalistically. Loki, for his own part, could do only so much to hasten their suicide. Manipulating events to an outcome only slightly different than what the Eddas prophesied was a prime function, even if the change was only seen at a marginal and therefore pointless level. Not pointless to Loki.

The Ragnarök and rebirth cycle had done much to wipe away the Asgardians' collective memory of Loki and his transgressions. He had forgotten none of it, though he had uncleverly returned to Thor claiming to be spent on trickery. It was perhaps the nature of the event. He had been prescient enough on rebirth to select the form of Sif. And then generous enough to give it back.

Thor should have sensed this treachery months ago.

Loki smiled.

He threw one hand in the air. The green electric bolts sizzled around him again.

He reappeared in Manhattan. In front of one of the derelict mansions once used by the Hellfire Club and now used as a safehouse by the members of Parker Robbins' criminal syndicate.

Robbins had taken over in the void left by the departure of Wilson Fisk. And had taken it upon himself to gather every villain, listed B through Z, into his company. His goal had been to destroy the Avengers. To seize the Eye of Agamotto for himself.

Parker Robbins with the Hood of Dormammu had been a sadistic child with a toy.

And now he was dead. Cut down so very unceremoniously by Loki's doing. By the might of Tyrfing.

Loki breathed deep and smiled, barely. He walked up the steps and held out one hand. The aged wooden door creaked as powers beyond human comprehension willed it backwards.

The reception hall was dark. Drop sheets covered china closets at the far end and coffee tables and Davenports in the middle. Unpopulated.

A spider-web between the balusters on the stairwell caught Loki's eye and he stared at it quizzically for a moment.

Then.

The tattered green corduroy jacket tightened and broadened into the gilded two-piece cuirass and pauldrons. The CAT Power Equipment hat hardened into the golden helm with the high and reflexive horns. Tyrfing, in its brass scabbard, reappeared at his waist, and the gilded pauldrons and chestplate shone brilliant in the moment of their transmogrification. The armour was gilded chain mail across the abdomen, and alternating squares of silver and gold on the upper cuirass, with herringbone slats pointing toward the scabbard and waistband. The spaces between the slat-plates were filled with runes in the Old Norwegian style. A partial inscription, but an inscription nonetheless; if an onlooker cared enough to translate it would have read: '_Birch has the greenest leaves of any shrub;  
Loki was fortunate in his deceit'._

This was Loki at war. Stylish. Anachronistic. Not terribly efficient. But it made a statement. He was as much an art collector and antiquarian as he was anything else. It was a hobby.

He looked to the top of the stairs. The room was still dark.

He had strolled in on purpose, to set off their alarms.

_Come, you fools. Face me._

God of Mischief.

He had been here before. Not in person with these people, these self-evident monsters and their little quarrels and their genocidal urges. Those he could respect, even if he was not a participant. But he had been here in spirit. In admiration of all that they were, and all they were trying to kill. This America of theirs proved a most fertile ground. Its population carried something in its own way magical. They had imagination. Determination. And quite stunning levels of depravity. They had built an entire city in the desert on that skilful application of decadence, where rich and poor alike rejoined in mutual abhorrence. He had been in the minds of stoical natives resisting their own destruction. In the minds of imperious colonizers hunting their beasts to extinction. In the minds of urban developers creating crystal monoliths to nowhere and empires built on faulty fundaments. In the mind of every granola protester and dissident.

He had been there for the scalpings. Custer's Last Stand. Elsewhere, for their foolish Mad Cow Disease. For their Red Khmer. For the shootouts. For the one they called Rodney King, and the thing they called the Stonewall Riots. For the police brutalities. For the abuses and the sick pleasures. He'd been in the minds of duplicitous CEOs strip-mining their flimsy human economic structures for something called 'kickbacks'. In the minds of unruly schoolchildren buried in their own hatred and mania who exact their fears and passions and depravities on the innocent and the easy.

In the minds of rebellious teen-agers fleeing away from unjust parents and unjust 'rules' and into mates and bedrooms of broken promises and shattered lives. Every jay-walker. Every vandal. Every back-stabber, every adulterer, every criminal, every deviant.

Every one of them, all of those things, had fed into him. Into the idea.

Mischief and lies.

_So what was mischief, Loki?_

The jaywalkers and the spray-painters, the adulterers and the deviants. All cut from the same cloth. They upset those silly little notions of order. This was not a nihilistic conception of reality. It was the only conception of reality. One Loki understood quite well. One his brothers could not. Nor could Odin. Or Thor.

The humans, though. They were digging their own mass grave, and they didn't even know it.

It was poetic. Tragic. Sweeping. The extents to which they went to kill themselves.

Death by a thousand cuts.

Great Odin's raven, Loki loved it.

Of course he could tell them this to their face. Humans as a species defined themselves negatively—by what they were not—and they hated to be told to 'buck up' or improve or that they were somehow responsible for their own woes. The truth was obvious to everyone but none enjoyed hearing it. That had been the Skrulls' doing: tell them why they fail, and then offer a voluntary association clause to save them from themselves.

Madness. Sheer madness.

The idea among them was that salvation somehow lay within, that no one could tell you you were a failure, just that something bad had happened and it behoved the species to do something about it. Advise and consent; not rant and rave. Saving the world—and they painted it in those perfectly apocalyptic terms, considering any other semantics as denial of the gravity of the situation—was therefore a noble if necessarily selfish goal that would make them appear snobbish and concordantly attractive to one another. It was the flimsiest of excuses and yet the most sensible. Doing something because one wanted to be seen doing it. Because it would bring notoriety.

Loki could empathise with that. The need to be seen.

Leave the honest work to the super-people, who as it turned out couldn't be bothered with the little people. That was the point, and the lasting bit of amusement for Loki. It was a Manichean world, and despite all their best efforts to bridge the gulf, none of them really had. They remained locked in fashionable Pharisaical behaviours. And they ever maintained that they were saving the world and that it was noble to be doing so. Especially if it gave them accolade in the eyes of their better men.

Ahead of Loki, there was a slim figure at the top of the stairs. The tall window behind her bathed her in shadow but he knew by her stance that she was uneasy. She sensed the obvious.

He cocked his head and emotionless eyes waited for the woman to descend the stairs.

She reached the bottom after a long moment. Dressed in a white and black bodysuit and a gilded facemask.

Madame Masque.

"Brave of you, female," Loki said with his characteristic smirk and in a half-dazed way. "I suspect your agents have found Parker Robbins by now."

"Yes," she said. The metal faceplate was a clever trick but Loki had seen it a thousand times before. It hid emotions, which was by her design. Loki was not interested in her emotions though.

He could see right through her. Like he could all mortals.

_Except Victor..._

"You're the god of mischief," Madame Masque said. "Loki, right?"

He nodded.

"And you killed Parker to take his place," she said.

Loki's laugh had been content to stay within him. It erupted with snobbish affectation.

"Is that the limit of your vision?" he asked, still chuckling. "My, the density astonishes." He turned around and walked slowly toward one of the tall windows. Between the wooden planks nailed to the exterior siding, in a gap the size of his own head, Loki looked out at the humans' 7th Avenue.

"Why?" she asked. "Tell me why!"

Loki stopped and cocked his head again. This time he grinned, the typical thin kind that showed he was eminently amused and simultaneously annoyed. One more than the other, in whichever proportion he cared to think about.

He blew a sigh out his nostrils, walked right up to her and drew Tyrfing as he did.

Slid it effortlessly into her gut, and when he was certain it was clear through to the other side, twisted it. Didn't even bother ripping off the bronze faceplate to see her face.

"It is, how you say, the 'damndest thing'. In a world of shapeshifters, malevolent demons and Outer Gods bent on universal destruction, you and your ilk would deign to chase orderly perfection. You believe a firearm and this thing you call 'elbow grease' could conquer a world?"

She choked on blood rising in her own throat; the mask shifted as her jaw slacked. He cocked his head, the expression remained dead: focused eyes and an undecipherable flat mouth. Twisting Tyrfing into Whitney Frost's gut.

He leaned in, an inch from her ear and whispered, sweet and pathological all at once: "Your organization is disbanded, its usefulness long since outlived. Send your association of never-rans back to the sewers whence they came, she-witch. A new power is rising. One Parker Robbins misunderstood."

_What is mischief, Loki? What is it you do?_

He slid Tyrfing back into its scabbard.

Madame Masque lay twisted and unmoving on the floor, her blood pooling out in a wide arc around her waist and soaking into the floorboards.

He rolled his eyes. In another flash of green energy, he was gone.

Reappearing in Castle Doom's mainmost laboratory. And smiling, self-serving and righteous, at the Lord of Latveria at work over an electron microscope.

* * *

**Monster Island.**

**Norman Osborn.**

Sometimes, not very often, in his quiet moments, Norman Osborn sat up from whatever he might have been doing and did not move for a long time. He allowed himself the luxury of spacing out. And tried not to think about the crushing pressure in his chest.

Well, he thought. This is it. This is that feeling again. You can only say what it is in French. He'd been here before. If pain was a realm, as some of the 'top men' had theorized, correctly as it turned out, that time was a realm as well, then Norman Osborn was pain's foremost resident, its foremost experiment.

This was familiar to him. It was the same pain, the same imagery and the same psychotic freeflow of synaptic data he'd felt when he died the first time. He'd had no conception of how long that first bout had lasted, only that it ended at some point and he had woken up in the morgue as one very pissed off man.

He left for Europe scant hours thereafter. So he could be free.

_But we can never be free, Norman._

_Never._

_Never ever._

_Because Spider-Man will always duck out of the way at the last minute._

_The glider will always slam into your chest and crush your sternum. Your life. Your fortune._

_It's not poetic, Norman, it's the truth._

His chest hurt. The same way it did whenever it was rainy or cold outside. It was his own hip operation, his own bum ticker. It was a familiar pain, too; the stress of maybe focusing too much weight on it and fearing the bones might snap in half and send deadly shards of bone into his heart and kill him. Stark style.

Of course, he thought. Of course your chest hurts Norman. Perchance to dream it's not the scar tissue and the cruciform mark your own glider left on you. All those years ago.

The face of Gwen Stacy popped into his head, unbidden as ever. Like it did from time to time. Usually the sequence went: Gwen, then Harry, then Emily. Then Spider-Man.

Except Osborn knew the truth now. It had come flooding back to him great leaping gulfs a day ago, when Spider-Man and the rest of the Avengers strolled into the Tower and Spider-Man stripped his mask off to reveal the thin and handsome face of Peter Parker.

Osborn had almost had a heart attack. Then and there.

He screamed. Didn't hear it.

Breathed. Didn't feel it.

_This is your own stasis lock, Norman. Your own personal hell, courtesy of Mendell Stromm._

_Of yourself._

_Of Spider-Man._

_God. You know you really lost it there for a while. Really. You just went fucking insane after Ben Reilly died. I hope you know that. Parker was Parker and you just couldn't handle it so you dove back into your 'I'll get you Peter Parker!' shenanigans and went off almost killing that waste of space, whatshisface Thompson and half-fucking up Parker's life. You just couldn't let him go. All the fucking marks of a stalker and a sociopath._

_You're a goddamn sick piece of shit, Norman and you know it._

_Everyone knows it._

_Did you think it was coincidence? So many good things all happening for you. All for you! Norman! _

_The Commission on Superhuman Activities, the Thunderbolts. And then the big one._

_Norman Osborn didn't kill those Skrulls._

_I did!_

_ME!_

_And what did you do, Norman?_

_Chase a GODDAMN CRYBABY round New York for TEN YEARS!_

_What a waste._

_You're a gutless turd, Norman and you know that too. A sadistic little fuck-up, full of piss and vinegar and nothing else. You blow hot air and you do NOTHING! Where's Spider-Man's corpse, strung up from the Daily Bugle Building?_

_Your heart's going to start beating in about five seconds._

_You better get your shit together._

_Because if you don't. I'll kill them all._

_And then you._

His eyes shot open. Painfully. Daylight entered his perceptions as painfully and he shut his eyes as quickly. Groggy, he raised a hand and blocked out the sun. And then he figured it out.

He was on his back. Floating on a mangled piece of titanium armour plating in the middle of the ocean. Heaving to and fro every few minutes in the oddly calm waves. He swallowed and the back of his throat scratched, parched flesh on parched flesh. With a broken, bloody hand soaked with salt water he rubbed his lips and grimaced at the taste.

He sat up slowly, propping himself on one elbow, and looked in the sky.

There was nothing. No clouds. No Carrier. No Avengers.

_Above us, only sky..._

He couldn't even tap his helmet earpiece to check-in with Hand.

He looked to one side.

_Spider-Man will always duck out of the way..._

Bullseye was sitting on one of the turbines, floating a meter or three away. Daken was with him. It had been blown off the main Carrier in the Moloid rampage, probably by one of Elder's giant-ass abominations. The electrical short had blown the turbines within the shell to pieces; black scorch marks stretched down the side exhaust vents. Bullseye was sitting on the flat-top, a Lucky Strike held lazily between index and ring finger.

Osborn held up one hand in the mono-wave.

_You'll never be free, Norman._

Bullseye mock-saluted him, the Lucky Strike burning down quickly at the corner of his mouth.

"Any," Osborn said, "anyone else alive?"

"Oh aye," Bullseye said. "'Ere's a human shaped oil slick on yer other side calling himself Mac Gargan, might want to check into that. Moonstone's gone bye-bye, haven't seen her. And our junior Canadian clawed friend is here, as you can see."

Osborn groaned. Coughed up blood and spit it out.

"We were lucky," he said.

Bullseye scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, Norms," he said and flicked the spent Lucky Strike away. He lighted another summarily. "I survived me some Elektra and some Black Widow—the good one, mind ye. Even had the honour of kicking Frank Castle's ass oncer'twice. How bout you, Dakie?"

Daken nodded his head. His costume was in shreds, smeared intermittently with the emerald goo of Moloid innards and blood.

"We need out of here," Osborn said. "We need to get to Washington. Alert them."

Bullseye chuckled again. At the foot of the floating turbine, Venom reformed itself in the bulbous, hulked out shape of Mac Gargan underneath and then normalized into the slender Spider-Man imitation.

"What makes you think we got a snowball's chance in hell of saving the world again, Norms?" He took a drag on the Lucky Strike. "Shit, it's probably all a fireball by now. Let's drift for Borneo and carve a new niche in the wildlife."

"No," Osborn said. "Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"That thing have telepathy? Any way to get in touch with the Tower?"

"No."

Osborn groaned again.

_Never be free._

_Of the Goblin._

They were going to have to do this the hard way.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	9. Break Down

_**Author's Note:**_ First of all, a note on chronology. I've been working on the model that the events of_ Secret Invasion_ are about a month old by the time of this story's beginning--which is meant to come out of the events of _Dark Avengers_ #5/_New Avengers_ #50. Doom and the Dark Avengers defeated Morgan LeFey less than two weeks ago; the Dark Avengers are as old. The events of _Dark Avengers/X-Men: Utopia_ are assumed to have happened in the space of "last week," as did the events of _Dark Reign: Fantastic Four_. We've also purposely kept the New Avengers out of this; by the time of our monument bombing, their adventure in New Orleans was already wrapped up and Parker Robbins stripped of the Hood of Dormammu (and, by the time we got through with him, quite dead). Hank Pym and the Mighty Avengers, for anyone that still cares about Hank Pym, are trickier: for all that Loki fits into this story, I haven't figured out a significant way to fit Pym into what has essentially become (and I figured this out about yesterday) a Fantastic Four story. Lambaste away at that. At any rate I beseech the reader to fudge the timeline where necessary and to invoke Donald Bellisario's great mantra: don't think about it too closely. In other news, in a move that surprised even me, we managed to address one of the sticky parts of _The Clone Saga_ in Spider-Man's conversation with Reed Richards. Elsewhere, the idea that Bucky, as the Winter Soldier, was killing political otherthinkers (how's that for Newspeak, Mr Orwell?) in the fictitious Harkerville, Ohio is a reference to the short story 'Everything's Eventual' by Stephen King. We managed another aside concerning _Annihilation_, as well as the events of _Secret Invasion: Fantastic Four_. Norman Osborn's List is a revised version from Chapter Two that takes into account (slightly) the upcoming _Dark Reign--The List_ oneshots by Matt Fraction and Brian Bendis. Similarly, Osborn's habit of keeping copious files on a multitude of subjects is lifted straight from the film _X2: X-Men United_ where Col. William Stryker did the same thing with mutants (Franklin Richards, Nathaniel Essex and Project Wideawake, for instance). Most of the names in Norman's files are obvious and have no real significance other than to serve as canon shout-outs, if you will. And if what I've done with Reed and Dr Doom seems at all odd or out of character for either of them, chalking it up to an errant Doombot might be the easiest explanation. That, or they're starting to take on the more 'gentleman rivals' aspect that so characterised, for instance, Charles Xavier and Magneto for a number of years. As the Lord of Latveria told Blastaar in this very story, after all, 'the old boundaries are lessening in value...'

* * *

**The Philippine Sea.**

**The Dark Avengers.**

Osborn had been reduced to using Bullseye's zippo as an impromptu soldering iron.

The other piece of good news was that he had been able to salvage enough of Daken's own earpiece communicator to spot-weld—very carefully spot-weld—the damn thing together. Into an extraordinarily rudimentary shell of its former self. With any luck, they'd only get one band on it.

"Okay," he said. He kept his eyes on the thumb-sized piece in the palm of his hand and with his other hand held out the zippo. Bullseye retook it and raised a cautious eyebrow. It was becoming a signature move. The curious killer. "Fortunately enough for us, these things run on the old SHIELD tech. The circuits are prewired to the emergency channel. If anyone's still alive, they should pick us up."

"If they don't?" The question was Bullseye's and it was a fair one.

Osborn looked at him, vastly unamused.

"Then we'll have to reach out to a telepath or two."

Bullseye's lips parted and his neck muscles stood out for a moment in a display of displeasure. On the whole, he distrusted the whole mutant thing. He'd never been much for the political end of it. The whole kerfuffle about the mutant cure a couple years back? Boring. Massive Mutant Depowering? Sexy title, he thought, but equally boring. The only really good part about it all?

They were a bunch of frightened goddamn rats now.

Bullseye could enjoy that.

Especially if ol Dakie, sitting next to him on the heaving and hoeing blown up turbine, could too.

Osborn pressed the modified communicator into his ear and tapped it once.

He said nothing and his eyes stared blankly into the horizon. The sun was starting to set.

* * *

**Manhattan. The Baxter Building.**

**Reed Richards.**

He was in teleconference.

Again.

With the President. With Secretary Gates. And Thunderbolt Ross.

Again.

It was taxing. At the very least, Reed's life for the past three years had been no less taxing than the current state of affairs. He thought about it while he was un-listening to Thunderbolt Ross start in on another barn-burning elegy, and came to the marginally surprised conclusion that his lie, such as it was, was never going to be calm.

It hadn't been calm—really, honestly calm—since his 33rd birthday.

When everything changed.

He relived the day quite often. Not as often as he once did. Time was, every day he would see Ben reminded him of that day. But things had gotten better since then.

And it wasn't a matter of Ben accepting his bouldered mutation either. Nor of memory fading.

Reed could never forget that day.

They had all been blessed. Incredibly blessed. Somewhat insalubriously by the wonders of cosmic radiation that escaped the mathematical perfection of Reed's mind. But blessed. They had made lemonade out of radioactive lemons.

The pun made Reed smile a bit and Thunderbolt asked what was so funny; Reed merely said, "Nothing, please continue" and continued unlistening.

They had all been so blessed. And he had never seen it until recently.

In more or less the same way the philosophers and something Johnny called 'Aerosmith' talked about life being a journey and not a destination, Reed could similarly look at the incident which gave them all their fantastic powers as not only spiritual lemonade but also a stepping stone on an equally fantastic voyage.

Life.

It was poetic, to be sure, and he allowed the emotional indulgence. He was getting better at that too.

He looked down at the lab table: polished aluminium plating, the kind at use in commercial kitchens. He had improved the design by synthesizing an anti-microbial disinfectant aerosol that, once applied, dried into a protective sheet. It had taken only minor tampering with the Lysol hydrochloride strains to produce an elastic yet durable strand; clearing it with their lawyers was the hard part, a compromise with whom involved selling the synthesis to Lysol in exchange for twenty per cent royalties bimonthly, and to Reed's lawyers, the inimitable Nelson & Murdock LLC, this was perfectly acceptable.

So life was good.

And despite everything else that had happened in the past three years.

The Avengers disassembling, then reassembling mere weeks later.

Victor's exile to Hell and return eighteen months later.

Annihilus' rampage into this universe and decimation of the Skrull Empire, which invariably portended the Skrull invasion on Earth itself.

That had been the straw on the camel's back. More so than the Civil War.

And the Fantastic Four were, with few exceptions, the only ones to come out of the Skrull invasion unscathed.

Johnny had reencountered Lyja while he and Ben and the children were locked in the Negative Zone. They had admitted their feelings to each other again—and since Johnny's emotions weren't in question on the matter, Reed took him at his word. And then Johnny and Ben had saved the children. Brought them back safely.

Man alive, he'd brought them back safely.

Reed focused in on Thunderbolt Ross again. And wondered. If something were to happen again. Would Ben save them again?

The doubt was pointless. In his heart of hearts, Reed knew.

_Ben would die before letting anything happen. To any of us._

"So Dr Richards, what say you?" Thunderbolt concluded.

Tired, Reed wiped one side of his face and sighed. "Well, General Ross, I'm still not sure what you want us to do about it. I've spoken with the President about this matter previously, and while I agree that the Fantastic Four are the only team in the country who can do anything about this right now...I have to say, it's not quite our usual purview. If you take my meaning, sir."

Gates spoke next, ever the mediator. "We understand that, Dr Richards. Our intelligence shows the Avengers are down; we haven't been able to get Osborn on the radio and our people have been trying for three hours."

Thunderbolt: "He's dead. Because of your Mole-Man, Richards! I hate to echo our friend Mr Barton, but this needs to be looked into. Why aren't we doing anything about this?!"

Gates: "Come off it, Thaddeus."

So far, Reed thought, par for the course all around. Of course it wasn't that hard to get tired or Thaddeus Ross, who glorified himself by his short temper and loose handle, off of which he so frequently flew.

Reed waited for the awkward moment to come and go, so everyone in the vidconference could acknowledge it for its weighty pointlessness.

Then he said, "Alright, gentlemen. Permission to speak freely?"

The President immediately said, "Granted."

"Norman Osborn thought he could run headlong into Monster Island and deal with this, and look where that got him. I hate to be so glib about it, gentlemen, but there it is. Now, ten years ago—because I know this is hanging on the tip of General Ross's tongue—it was easier for me and my team to do the same and in fact we did. You can read the report we gave to President Clinton, which you all have sitting in front of you. I freely admit that our first adventure involved going into the heart of Dr Elder's domain, and we paid the price heavily for it. No, we didn't lose anyone, but we were captured none the less and escaped by the skin of our teeth."

"Osborn," the President said, "had no such luck."

"Correct," Reed said. "Gentlemen, I think there are only two explanations for his failure and for why no one's heard anything other than a garbled SOS."

Gates was seen to lean back in his chair. He had a focused look on his face, the jowls on his face hung low and ran over the knot in his necktie obtrusively. He looked bloated. "What are you saying, Richards?"

Reed replied without hesitation. It was a conclusion at which he'd arrived precisely six minutes after leaving the husk of the Lincoln Memorial and three minutes after verifying the soil sample as from Monster Isle.

"I'm saying," he said in cautious, measured tones, "that Norman Osborn and the majority of HAMMER's forces were destroyed because they either underestimated Dr Elder's powers. Or..."

The President: "Or what, Reed?"

"Or," Reed repeated. It wasn't a particularly troubling conclusion to make. Reed had certainly seen worse. But this one was somehow different. 'Closer to home' might have been the appropriate idiom, but even that seemed to miss the mark. And of course, given the nature of Harvey Elder, and especially the nature of Norman Osborn, it was even easier to ascertain this possibility. "We have to at least entertain the idea that Osborn and Dr Elder had this planned from the outset."

Ross shot forward in his seat, instantly energized.

"Impossible," he said. "Why would Osborn get himself killed?"

"Maybe he thought Dr Elder would only put the fear of God into him or into his men," Reed said. "Maybe it was a muscle-flexing that got out of control, to the extent Norman couldn't stop it. My point is not to conjecture, but to offer explanations."

They were all silent for another moment. In the centre screen, a half-world away, the President leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers so they covered his mouth. His brow was furrowed and his eyes looked dead. Dazed.

Looking at his desk still, the President asked, "So what do we do?"

Reed looked from the screen containing Secretary Gates' image to the one with Thunderbolt Ross on it. Both of them looked like they were waiting on him.

"Well," Reed said, as measured as before. "I'm not an expert in such matters. But I think it would serve us all to get an extraction team out there and find Osborn."

"Agreed," Gates said.

"Right," Thunderbolt said. "And if he's alive, we bring him back here and debrief him. Extensively."

The President came out of his thoughts and looked at Reed. "Can your team do this, Dr Richards?"

Reed's face elongated within its natural limits; the eyebrows rose in mutual levels and the mouth opened for a moment. Genuine surprise.

"Well," Reed said. "We...really don't have the transportation capabilities for a trip that long, sir. I could contact The Sentry, send him out. Robert and I are on good terms."

That was an understatement.

Next to Ben, and Sue of course, Bob Reynolds was the closest thing Reed Richards had to a friend.

"Right," the President said. "Listen, all of you, and make sure this gets through the proper channels. As of right now, Dr Richards, I'm putting you in charge." Reed's heart sunk at that. The President continued. "You have the full run of Camp Hammond, its staff, as well as whatever's left of HAMMER. Get Sentry out there and bring back Osborn if you can. If he's dead...we'll regroup and come up with something new. Until then. Reed. This is yours. And I trust you. We'll be waiting."

Reed's eyebrows lowered but he didn't frown. "Understood, Mr President."

Thunderbolt Ross signed off first, his screen going black as he stood away from it. Followed swiftly by Gates. Then the President, who touched two fingers to his eyebrow in a mock salute and a gentle smile.

Reed focused weight on one leg and angled his arms on the lab table, bent at the elbows. Put weight on them too. His mouth hung open an inch. This was not what he wanted.

"You can come out now," he said.

After a moment, he turned around. The corridor behind him, the terminus of which was the east wall, the lab table, the electron microscope and the three hi-def videoconference screens, was wide enough for a large SUV to drive through. To Reed's right, behind a shelf that contained among other things a matter destabilize, a molecular degenerator that reduced the target to bubbling goo, and a square tank, reappropriated from Franklin's dead bettafish and fitted into an unstable molecule testing chamber.

Dr Doom walked out slowly. The green cloak and hood hung about him in bunches, and gathered at his feet. He held it close to himself, as a matter of protection.

"Is it in your nature to hide behind your government, Richards?"

Reed leaned against the lab table, crossed his arms over his chest.

Doom did the same, which meant he had to throw back the folds of his cape—and he only could do that with a triumphant swagger.

Reed smiled, ever so small. "The way I see it, the only one here hiding behind something is you."

"Charming," Doom said. "To the last."

Reed turned back to the lab table and started typing. The keyboard beamed a wireless signal to the receiver built into the display above the hi-def videoconference screens. Reed magnified the typeface so Doom could see it.

"A letter to Reynolds," Doom surmised. "You believe he will answer." It wasn't a question.

"A list of possible locations of the Sentry, Victor," Reed corrected. "And, you don't?"

"Your naivete astonishes," Doom said and started pacing. He clasped his arms behind his back. His strides were long, his posture rigid. Like he was surveying his own subjects. Instead.

He was surveying the cluttered mess that had become Richards' laboratory.

The eyes, the only human things showing from behind the cold steel faceplate, were narrow and yet still boldly bloodshot. Offended at everything they saw.

At his lab table, Richards was pressing a headset into one ear. His voice was alternately loud and normal, as if speaking into a static storm. "CQ, CQ, this is Reed Richards on the SHIELD priority station Gamma trying to reach Bob Reynolds. Bob, if you can hear me, this is Reed Richards. Something's happened in the Philippine Sea and we need you to investigate. Please copy."

Doom was at Richards' side.

He scoffed and turned away promptly, pacing down the wide passageway. Bored. "Amateur radioplay is for children, Richards. Why not send a smoke signal to the Pawnee while you're at it."

Reed looked at Victor thickly. "The country's on a hair trigger, Victor. One of our monuments was blown to hell and our peacekeeping task force has more or less been destroyed. The SHIELD priority frequencies are the only ones running uninterrupted. If he's out there, we can pick him up on this."

"But of course."

Reed went back to the headset. "CQ, Bob Reynolds, please respond, this is Reed Richards."

Within his mind, the Lord of Latveria channelled latent mystical conduits and reached into the ether. Searching for Robert Reynolds' distinct presence in the vastness.

Nothing.

Reed pulled the headset off. "To hell with this," he said and picked the phone off the table. To Doom, he said, "Trying the mobile channels."

Doom, his back to Reed, rolled his eyes.

Three rings into it, a pleasant and distant voice said, "Hello, Reed."

"Bob," Reed said in the way one might curtly greet a hotel guest. "I'm glad I caught you. Are you free?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"HAMMER and the Avengers have been taken down. The carrier was destroyed about two hours ago north of Borneo. Can you get out there and help? See if anything's left?"

There was a pause on the Sentry's end for a long moment. If Reed focused he swore he could hear Bob talking to someone. Then, fully an execrable and long minute later, Bob came back.

"Yes," he said, tentative. "I think we can look into that. I'll report back when I have him."

Click.

Reed set the phone down slowly; it was his custom to hold it against his right ear and that's where the manila folder landed. An eminently full affair, with paper clips and stick-it notes poking out of the top and side.

Reed looked at Doom.

"What is that?"

"Those were taken from the private offices of your Norman Osborn this morning."

"Your agents?" Reed guessed. He stood facing Doom and with one hand opened the folder. The top sheet was an itemized list.

Doom nodded.

Reed turned fully away from him and focused on the list:

_ X-Men/San Francisco_

_ Bob_

_ Victor_

_ Namor_

_ Daredevil (Bullseye)_

_ Ares (Alexander)_

_ Nick Fury_

_ Frank Castle (The Hood)_

_ Hulk (Gen. Ross)_

_ KILL Spider-Man_

Reed looked back at Doom.

"You knew about this."

Doom didn't move. Only said, "Of course. Why else would I choose to share it with you?"

Reed walked up to Doom and by the time he spoke he was an inch from the cold steel faceplate. "How long," he said. "What did he promise you?"

Doom cocked his head, ever so slightly. "Richards, you surprise me. For a man of science, you have given yourself so easily over to this conspiracy."

"Victor, I have to know."

Doom turned away and gathered the excess length of his cape over one arm, held tight against his waist. He strolled to the back of the lab, near the exit/entrance to the lounge.

"I have little clue as to the meaning of the terms on that sheet," Doom said. "I suspect it to be Osborn's 'Enemies List'. I once saw a similar one, though my agents have informed me this is the most recent iteration."

Reed looked at it again. Then at Doom. "You admit it, then. Working with him."

Doom looked at the ceiling—Reed guessed with a certain amount of wistfulness. "Why indulge a pointless emotional assessment based in anger or betrayal, Richards? I brought that list to you for one reason and one reason alone."

"You're on it."

"Correct," Doom said. "I could not allow myself to become vassal of a lesser man."

"Noble."

"Indeed," Doom said. He was walking toward Reed again. "You have my word that I was engaged with Osborn in diplomatic negotiations that would serve my nation best. Osborn's flaw, however, lay in his implication of servitude and complicity. Doom serves no man."

Reed crumpled the list and set it back on the lab table.

"Victor," he said. Solemn. "Did you arrange the attack on the Lincoln Memorial? Did you make Harvey Elder destroy the HAMMER carrier?"

Doom looked at Reed. The armoured helm turned slowly in place. As unexpressive as ever. "Of course not," he said. "Osborn's power schemes do not concern me. What I seek, he cannot provide."

"Me," Reed supplied. "On a silver platter."

"Correct."

Reed held his arms out in a wide offertory. Come and get me. "And yet here we are. Why are we both still alive?"

"As fervently and as often as I have sought your destruction, Richards, I also seek the destruction of any that might impede me in that goal. This includes Osborn. He tried to, how you say, 'shut you down' last week and strip you of your assets, did he not?"

"He did."

"It took only a nudge from me to convince him to renege. You have my word on that, as well."

Reed was getting impatient. "You want a fruitbasket?" he asked.

The human eyes behind the faceplate were still bloodshot. Angry. Seething. They narrowed as the mouth four inches below spoke. "The enemy of my enemy is no longer my friend. I seek to prove this point to Osborn. In delivering those files I have just done you a favour, as the idiom goes. I shall await your end of the bargain."

"Is this what you came here for, Victor? To hold this thing over my head?"

"No," Doom said. "The witch Morgan Le Fey once accused me of betrayal, and while that may seem an obvious and therefore pointless accusation to make to one such as yourself, it concerns me not, Richards. Honor, not treachery, is my natural state. I no longer see an honourable benefit to my association with Norman Osborn."

"So you gave him up to me."

"Interpret it however you wish," Doom said and pressed a button on his gauntlet. "But have a care and know that Doom is so merciful."

The transport square flashed brilliant for a moment.

Doom was gone.

Reed stared after him for a moment. Then turned back to the Manila folder. He smoothed out the crumpled list, and started reading the second sheet.

The one with the blueprints for the Lincoln Memorial.

* * *

**10,000 feet over the Philippine Sea.**

**The Sentry and Noh Varr.**

The Quinjet had been given to Noh Varr. Not even pirated, for all the vulgarity that entailed. Part of the fringe benefits of being on Osborn's new Avengers team was licence to use all the accoutrements the old Avengers teams had. The headquarters, the transportation.

Noh Varr could even reflect fondly, if oddly, on Karla Sofen's shapeliness. Or prowess, at the very least. So it was all part of the same deal. He suspected this had been done on purpose. A deliberation of the part of Norman Osborn to keep them all in line, or happily quiet.

That hadn't worked so well.

Three nights ago, Noh Varr found himself confronted with the truth about Norman Osborn.

About his criminal past. Full of murders and betrayals.

It wasn't the murdering that got Noh Varr. That he could sympathise with. Killing, if framed militarily, Noh Varr could take less issue with than killing for the sake of killing. Right or wrong didn't figure into it. Noh Varr hadn't cared that Osborn's reputation builder as the vaguely garish Green Goblin was the murder of some nondescript blonde named Gwen Stacy.

What mattered for Noh Varr was Osborn's duplicity.

_He could have simply admitted it._

_Which he did, of course._

But for some reason, Noh Varr hadn't taken to that either. So he ran away. It was uncharacteristic but it had given him time to think. When he finally decided to contact Earth again after two days on Titan, Bob Reynolds had been the only one willing to talk to him. The rest were enthralled to Osborn.

On the way back from Titan, in the space-flight-equipped Quinjet, Noh Varr and the Sentry came up with a plan. It was fortuitous that Reed Richards' call came in when it did.

_We allowed ourselves to be taken in_, he thought. _By a thinly-veiled charlatan. Now, let us rectify that inequity._

Noh Varr leaned forward in the captain's chair and pressed the comm. Button.

"Robert," he said. "Do you see them?"

Twelve meters starboard of the Quinjet, The Sentry hovered, a motionless gilded monolith against the deepening purple shades of the coming night. The sun had retreated below the horizon. They were already out of light.

Sentry looked down and focused. His eyes narrowed, the eyebrows went down and the forehead musculature smoothed. He took a deep breath.

"There."

Two of them were sitting on a floating turbine, the last survivor of an apparently devastating attack. The other one was Gargan in the symbiote, bulked out and altering his weight to allow him to float. And there was Osborn, sitting on a mangled piece of titanium jutting out of the ocean.

Sentry lowered to sea level in three seconds. Which was an eternity.

Osborn would have stood at the sight of Bob, elated as ever to be saved. But he didn't, probably for fear of overturning the mangled titanium plating on which he sat.

None of them moved, actually.

Bob thought about it, and then simply held out his hand to Osborn.

"Come with me," Bob said. "We're going back to New York."

Osborn took it and stood with a groan.

Bullseye kept smoking what Bob guessed was the penultimate Lucky Strike in the box. Kept his unhealthy and vastly distrustful gaze on Bob. Then took his other hand.

Noh Varr lowered the Quinjet to impulse power and rested it a hundred feet above the quintet. Bob took Osborn and Bullseye up to the Quinjet's ventral access hatch. He hovered away to one side as Gargan stretched the symbiote's arm up to the hatch. Spade-black claws wrapped themselves around teh hatch's lid and pulled the rest of Gargan up through. Once he was inside, Gargan revered back to his normal size; the oil-slick veneer of the symbiote muted itself away.

Bob returned to sea level for Daken, who took his hand as cautiously.

"Any sign of Karla?" Bob asked.

Daken shook his head. "No."

By the time Bob and Daken were on board, Osborn was in the co-pilot's chair. Telling Noh Varr repeatedly that they had to "go, now!"

Noh Varr angled the velocitator up to power. The Quinjet reclined on its axis and then rocketed higher in the sky. The manner of piloting he was now engrossed in would give them maximum speed and cut the most amount of time off transportation. The jet would achieve apogee at approximately 300 miles—well within what they called 'low-earth orbit' and then returned under weight of gravity and minimal guidance controls to a user-determined extraction point.

The trip to Titan had done much to acquaint Noh Varr with earthly technologies.

* * *

**The Baxter Building.**

**Reed Richards.**

He was sitting at one end of the kitchen table. Better the kitchen table than, say, the diplomatic reception room downstairs or the lounge. Reed wanted this to be vaguely formal. Not a mixer, but not an interrogation. So Sue decided the kitchen. It was whimsical on the order the Fantastic Four were used to, and Sue had used the opportunity to serve delightfully anachronistic Hi-C. Once she'd served tequila sunrises and had to explain to Franklin why he wasn't allowed to have the "faded OJ like Uncle Johnny's doing." So it was a compromise.

Spider-Man was sitting at the far end, hands clasped on the table in front him, his spine rigid, his head staring straight ahead and, also, not moving. The manila folder lay on the ForMica in front of him, open to the page on his dear old Aunt.

Johnny was at Reed's right, Spidey's left, lounging lazily, one leg crossed over the other and snapping his fingers every few minutes. Snap, and his thumb caught fire; snap, and it went out. This went on the whole time.

Across from Johnny, at Reed's left and Spidey's right, was the new Captain America. In another life he'd been Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers' stalwart partner during the War who'd been caught in the explosion of Zemo's bomber and been revivified by the Soviets—only to spend the Cold War as an agent of theirs, killing political targets from Tokyo to Harkerville. These days? He was atoning for all that. Trying to.

Sue and Ben were standing in the doorway to the lounge, listening in. So were Clint Barton and Luke Cage.

"Alright," Reed said. "Spider-Man. I know you've unmasked yourself to your Avengers team, and you unmasked to us about two weeks ago."

"Sure," Spidey said. "Are you asking me to do it again? 'Cause I feel kinda naughty doing it, I mean—"

"Peter," Reed said. Gently. "Try to stay with me."

"Okay." Spidey shook the willies out of his arms and cracked his neck in either direction. "Okay, I'm good."

Reed said, "The point here is not to re-educate ourselves in Peter Parker. We all know who he is and we all remember. The point, Peter, is Norman Osborn."

Spidey scratched the back of his head and under the red facemask, his face contorted. "Oh geez, guys."

Johnny cut in: "Take it easy on him, fellas, he's had it rough."

"I understand that," Bucky As Cap said. "But it needs to be done." He looked at Spidey. "Focus, Peter."

"Peter," Reed said and then added "Spider-Man. You just read a sizeable accumulation of files from Norman Osborn's computers. I got them from Doctor Doom, and I have every reason to believe they are, for the most part, true."

"Welp," Spidey said and touched a finger to his chin, aping Rodin, "okey-dokey. Not gonna get into the whole Dr Doom thing, but if you believe them, then they must be something."

Bucky As Cap: "We need to hear it from you, Peter. You told the Avengers that you had history with this guy, none of it pleasant. How much history?"

Reed: "How much is true, Peter? Did he kill Dr Stromm? What happened to Terri Kidder? What's the connection to this Kingsley character—and what about Ben Reilly?"

"Alright, alright, alright!" Spider-Man threw his arms up. Vastly irritated. "Okay? Alright, I get it! You don't have to berate me with it, Reed, I saw it. I just read the freaking transcripts for the memory lane from Hell, okay?"

"Peter, we must know. We have reason to believe he's allied himself with some very powerful, very dangerous criminals."

"It's all true." Peter's voice was a whisper. A shattered dream given shape.

Silence. Ben Grimm, standing at the back of the room cleared his throat awkwardly and loudly.

Spidey pulled off his mask.

The thin and handsome face of Peter Parker was red with shame. Anger. Frustration. His eyes were bloodshot and watery and his bottom-lip quivered.

Quieter, he repeated himself. "It's all true."

"You're sure?" Reed asked with a scientist's detachment.

"Yes," Parker said and looked at the floor. "I was there. I saw it all. And you were there too, Reed, at least for part of it. Remember when you ran those tests on my aunt a few years back and didn't find anything wrong with her?"

Reed nodded.

"She was a clone!" Parker barked. "A damn figment of my imagination. Courtesy of Norman Freaking Osborn. You want to know if it's true? It's all true! Every last goddamn word of it! Couple years ago, this would've been before 9/11, he kidnapped me and slammed me into some mansion upstate. Drugged my ass and forced me to look at the world that same twisted way he does. It almost worked. Few years after that, he-he cripples Flash Thompson. Blows the Bugle to Hell after killing that Kidder reporter lady. Almost hospitalizes Ben Urich for it."

He shuddered and wiped a stream of tears away. And kept going.

"And he killed Gwen Stacy. Threw her off the Brooklyn Bridge, okay? I tried to save her! She was unconscious but I tried to save her. Threw out a thing of webbing and it-it-it caught the back of her head, but...Osborn always liked to mess with me and tell me I snapped her neck. How could anyone live with that!?"

Sue, dear sweet precious Sue, was at his side, sliding a warm and comforting arm around his shoulder. The perfect empathy.

Parker was still looking at the table when he started talking again.

"He's my best friend's father," he said, in a low and fractured voice, "and he doesn't even like his own damn son! He hates him! He hates Harry Osborn!" Quieter: "Jesus." Fractured-Voice: "He's a monster. A-a-a complete monster."

Then his head was in his hands, which then slunk to the table and stayed there unmoving. After a moment he sucked snot back in his nose.

"It's all true," Parker repeated and his voice sounded like a rusty wheel, coming in and out of audible frequencies and tearful babbles. "And you'll never be able to prove it..."

Bucky as Cap stood. They all looked at him, and when he spoke, they all. Sort of. Leaned back. Stunned.

"Yes, we will," he said and laid a calming and authoritative hand on Parker's shoulder. "And then we'll rebuild."

* * *

**Castle Doom.**

**Dr Doom and Loki.**

The veranda ran the length of Castle Doom's eastern wing. It was open-air and so suited to a night-time constitutional from one end to the other. Over the stonework barriers on either side that served as railings, the green-copper roofing angled sharply and was bright, bathed in the midnight glow of the Moon.

They were standing at the west end, where the veranda terminated in a half-hexagonal turret with three gargoyles staring north, south, and perfect west. They were enjoying respective goblets of '32 merlot. Loki had little practical use for such mortal contrivances, but could indulge himself. It was after all, at the pleasure of the Lord of Latveria.

To whom the God of Mischief had taken a shine in these past long weeks.

"The Sentry has just reacquired Osborn," Doom said.

Loki took a deep swig. "Good. You're certain all is as it should be?"

"Indeed," Dr Doom said. "And it has only just begun. My visit to Richards confirmed that much. They will not expect a thing."

Loki let out an amused little chirp.

"Good," he said again. "I shall look forward to keeping my word. For once. What of the files we retrieved from the Tower?"

"Osborn's records speak for themselves. The doctored blueprint of their Lincoln Memorial is politically incidental."

"That's good."

"His records were far-reaching," Doom said. "Impressive in their fastidiousness, and they would be even more so if I knew particulars. His son's drug dosages; sworn affidavits of permanent visas for young Harold in France and Holland. Ten years accumulation of Osborn's own medication records and doctor's statements proclaiming severe manic depression and antisocial behavoiral tendencies. A Midtown High School faculty handbook for the academic year 2003-2004 listing a certain Peter Parker as the chemistry teacher. Twelve pages on someone named Gabriel Stacy; another six on May Parker, the aunt of the chemistry teacher. An address in Belize for someone named Roderick Kingsley. Detailed files for Macdonald Gargan, a certain Benjamin Reilly--deceased--Benjamin Urich, Jonah Jameson, Curt Connors, Lester Pondexter and Edward Brock."

"I don't know who any of those creatures are," Loki said.

"Nor do I," Doom said and sipped his wine.

"And Richards?"

"Fear not," Doom said. "We remain safely exonerated. Richards' guilt assures us that."

Loki took another drink. Angled his head back and stared wistfully at the night sky. And smiled the usual way: small and sinister, self-serving and quietly amused.

"I think," he said in a calm and measured manner, "it is time we begin the final stage."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	10. A Question of Ethics

**Author's Note: **we're getting closer to an event horizon, if not already dancing gleefully as it passes us by, so here are a few notations. We managed our millionth reference—that of the Mindless Ones and Doom's magical bargain—to Mark Waid's 'Unthinkable' story arc that ran in the main FF book during 2003. Dr Doom's breakdown of The Perfect Trap comes straight from the novelisation of _Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith_ (by Matt Stover, and totally worth the USD7.50 paperback ticket price). The aside about Stonehenge's mystical properties comes from the 2008 miniseries _Iron Man: Legacy of Doom_, which pitted the armoured Avenger against the Lord of Latveria at the site. A reference to Osborn kidnapping Peter Parker occurred in _Amazing Spider-Man_ vol. 2 #25 (by Howard Mackie and John Romita Jr); and we even threw in a nod to the controversial 'Sins Past' storyline that occurred in Amazing Spider-Man #509-514 (by JM Straczynski and Mike Deodato Jr). Concerning Loki, once more at least, the idea is that sort of like The Octopus in Will Eisner's _The Spirit_, our God of Mischief never wears the same armour twice; there's always some minor adjustment that reflects both snobbery and unfamiliarity. Also, I have no idea if Ultron and Dr Doom were even in the same panel during _Secret Wars_, but I figured it would have been inevitable at some point.

* * *

**Manhattan. Avengers Tower.**

**Norman Osborn.**

Osborn was the first out of the Quinjet. Bounding up the steps, he pushed Ben Urich aside. Then Sally Floyd, who was waving a cassette player in his face begging for a statement.

The lobby was empty.

The elevator ride up to the occupational levels had been tense and quiet, too. No 'Girl from Ipanema'. No other passengers.

Just Norman Osborn in a shredded remnant of his Iron Patriot armour.

The lift slowed. Polished aluminium doors slid open as the display dinged. The conference room lay ahead of Osborn.

For the second time this week, he found himself confronted by a group of people with unhappy, dour looks in their faces.

Reed Richards and the rest of the Fantastic Four.

The new Captain America. Clint Barton in that ridiculous ninja suit.

And Spider-Man.

Always Spider-Man.

Reed Richards stepped forward and threw the manila folder on the floor, in the meter-wide expanse between himself and Osborn.

"It's over, Norman."

* * *

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

**Victor von Doom.**

The army was vast. Sprawling. Numerous. Every word in the book that connotated both strength and number.

Several years ago, the Lord of Latveria had employed the Mindless Ones in a gambit against the Fantastic Four. They had served their purpose, to wear down the endlessly proud Benjamin Grimm's unique and quite sturdy physiology, and now Doom called upon their services again. By simply using them at all, Doom had proved his mystical acumen to Reed Richards in ways 'Mister Fantastic' hadn't been able to adequately rationalise.

Doom might have won that day, until the intervention of Stephen Strange portended his defeat.

Doom had spent the next eighteen months in Hell. Tortured by the demonic trifecta the Haazareth Three and their cruel master, Mephisto.

The same such demon that had enslaved and tortured Cynthia von Doom, mother of the Master, for decades. The years young Victor spent maturing. And when he ahd reached majority and returned Latveria to its rightful ruler—naturally, none other than himself—he had saved her.

With the help of Stephen Strange.

So the Sorcerer Supreme had been both blessing and bane. It was the nature of the world, and hardly a surprise to Victor von Doom, who sees much and does more.

Nothing fazed him anymore.

Nothing could.

And Strange was no longer the Sorcerer Supreme.

This made Doom's plan simpler in its achievement.

He had already won.

For his goal was not simply conquest, but misdirection. And not even misdirection in the sense of throwing poor Richards off his trail until it was too late. No.

This misdirection was aimed at Norman Osborn.

In league with a willing and sufficiently jaundiced third party, Dr Harvey Rupert Elder, Doom and the God of Mischief had set up both Elder and Osborn to be the recipients of the double-standard of America's iron-clad, yet fickle 'system'.

It was quite naturally flawless. Doom's oeuvre. It was also the perfect trap for the Superhuman Community. Particularly for Richards.

The standard superhuman trap contained five parts.

One. An irresistible bait. Additional interest could be warranted if the subject in question happened to rule his own nation and had a tendency, nay a history, toward destructive personal issues with the self-styled Mister Fantastic and his equally trite 'First Family of Super-heroes'. The role of bait, Doom played himself. The mere thought of Doom was enough to disquiet Richards during the day; the thought of Doom with an army at his back and a glint in his eye that meant 'I'm coming for you, and for your children'. That was infinitely better.

Two. A remote location, perhaps inaccessible by normal modes of travel. Perhaps one could only get there through proprietary technology that was at once expensive and inherently dangerous. A location easily defended, with a narrow field of action. Extra merit could be had if the location carried some significant emotional value. The Baxter Building itself, for instance, had been a reliable fallback, but anything could do in a pinch. The beech forests of Doomstadt, citadel of the enemy. The mystical hills around Stonehenge, conduit for Britain's magicians, mystics and madmen. America's overpopulated, underevolved national capital which glorified itself by monuments to dead men. Even Stamford Connecticut might have served the purpose. The location should also, preferably, belong to someone else. Perhaps an old enemy, long forgotten. And it should be virtually inescapable; if attainable only by dimensional travel, it behoved the executor of a given trap to destroy the only means of conveyance. Because once the user has Reed Richards where he wants him, Reed Richards doesn't leave.

The third part consisted of having a massive and deadly effective military force, entirely willing to reduce an entire world to protoplasm, themselves included, to prevent failure or escape.

There had been a fourth part to the plan. Once upon a time. It involved plausible deniability, and the wherewithal to stand by with forebearance while a proxy committed the deed for which the trap existed. But Doom's own magnificent sense of self had put a moratorium on it.

The pleasure of crushing Richards beneath his boots. Belonged to hatred. And to Doom.

At any rate.

The perfect superhero trap was the one being conducted in front of the Lord of Latveria's very eyes. This very moment. Calculated in victory out to the tenth decimal point.

The final element to the perfect trap was a certain elusiveness in execution. A detachment that could accept and live with success, certainly, and failure, if it had to. There would always be time to rebuild, which had the added factor of there always being time to grow in vengeance. The win-win situation was thus a first principle.

And it involved a situation where, by entering the trap at all—into negotiations, battle, mere fisticuffs, or even line of sight—the hero in question would have already lost.

This was as much an essay on ethics as anything else. By fighting at all, the essentially right-minded and pacifistic hero loses. By indulging his own churlish emotions, rooted in an outmoded and therefore counterintuitive sense of justice and democracy, the hero loses.

The equation was simple. For twenty years it had been simple. A stochastic differential masquerading under ease of access.

Doom had been willing and had devoted twenty years of his life to simply wishing Reed Richards dead. Gone. Forgotten.

Now the equation was altered slightly. Improved.

He wanted to prove Reed Richards wrong. Useless. Inert.

Then and only then.

Would he kill him.

A quintet of Mindless Ones lumbered in the recessed arena before him, hunching in their glorious lack of intelligence, their rocky hides glinting in the light. Behind the Mindless Ones were a battalion of Doombots. Five hundred man-shaped robots in the style of Doom himself, with adamantium-vibranium shells and logic units wired throughout the body so as to allow continued functioning in the event of decapitation. In the aftermath of the acquisition and subsequent loss of The Beyonder's powers several years ago, Doom had gotten his hands on one of the Ultron chassis and the lessons were great indeed. Henry Pym's failures as a human were legion, but his science was not in question; the full-body logic net had come from the so-called 'Secret Wars' Ultron, and Doom had appropriated the quality into his own troops.

Behind the Doombots were larger model Servo-Guards, five hundred in number as well. These were taller than man-size, encase in rounded and anodized vibranium plating—a process which had cost an entire year's Gross Domestic Product. They were thus more heavily-armoured, if slower, with greater armaments to boot. If needed, their kinetic processors could be amplified to allow faster movement; as it was they maintained a low frequency as a means of energy conservation.

Namor had supplied his personal guard, a small force comparatively, but a dedicated one no less. Thirty Atlanteans with sky-blue skin and severe features, armed with vibro-pikes and carbonadium curved-blade swords.

Emma Frost had spirited her Stepford Cuckoos away from San Francisco. She claimed they were support enough, and Doom did not question it.

Loki had entered with Balder tracking alongside him, and a decet of Asgardians. Carrying battle-axes. Doom did not question that either.

Standing on the dais, looking out in a dazed and vaguely uninterested way at his own assembly, the Lord of Latveria craned his head to one side. To Loki.

Loki nodded. Then smiled. As usual. Not the smile of a Man, of a God of Mischief. But the starry-eyed smile of a boy finding his favourite toy, and going out to play with it. To his heart's content.

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Norman Osborn.**

Spider-Man had been hanging upside down from the ceiling, so his view of Osborn was different from everyone else's.

They were content to stand on their boring old two feet and stare at him like that NBC fellow that Caught Predators every Thursday night at 9. 8 central.

Spidey flipped down and around, his body twisted in an unnatural way. He tucked one leg in close and straightened the other one out.

It landed right where Norman's cruciform scar was on his chest, and sent him to the floor.

Spider-Man landed in a low crouch. Behind the form-fitting red facemask, Peter Parker's eyes were intense and he watched Osborn cough and hack and groan from the backflip-kick. Waited for him to get to one knee.

When Osborn did, Spidey put out his arms again. Twin strings of webbing flew out and connected to Osborn's knees.

Spidey brought his arms back.

Osborn went to the floor again, this time on his face.

He took a longer moment getting up.

No one was saying a damn word.

Osborn was on his hands and knees now, and brought his head up so he could look at Spidey squarely.

Slowly.

The eyes were savage and wide, the crow's feet around them smooth like the rest of his face. Like it was barely containing the wrath underneath. Like it was going to explode.

It was also the case that Osborn had just returned from utter near-death. His hair was matted to his head, even more so than usual, in ovate bloody swaths. What Spidey guessed was transmission fluid or possibly fuel streamed from the hairline to the chin in irregular places and followed the contours of his skin, tanned and old and wrinkled as it was.

He'd never looked so old before.

The Iron Patriot armour was shredded. The chest-piece, formerly red with a star in the centre, was gone, as were the arm-platings, the rounded steel epaulettes, one of the leg assemblies from thigh to ankle. And the helmet.

The Mole Man's legions had done a number on him.

Osborn stood. Slowly. And put out his hands, palms facing Spidey and the group. Weak. Pleading.

"Now wait," he said in the same harried voice he had to Namor and Dr Doom three days ago in this very room. "Wait a damn minute."

Osborn turned around, hobbling on one leg, hoping to get to the elevator.

As soon as he turned, the doors slid open.

The Sentry and Noh Varr walked out, blocking Osborn's way. Bob hovered a foot in the air. Noh Varr pulled a pistol of Kree design from his waist and held it loosely. Osborn turned back to face Spidey and the rest.

Barton spoke first, throwing the finger of accusation out: "No. No more waiting, Norman. You killed Gwen Stacy and now we can prove it."

Johnny Storm: "And Ben Reilly. And Terri Kidder."

Ben Grimm: "You tried to set off some kind of DNA bomb a few years ago."

Susan Storm: "You kidnapped and tortured Spider-Man trying to make him your heir. You nearly crippled Flash Thompson."

Ben Urich: "During the Civil War, you tried to kill the Atlantean delegate."

"On orders from Tony Stark!" Osborn was hoarse with rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he barked it out. The eyes kept their wide, wild look.

Reed Richards stepped forward.

Spidey stayed in the crouch Watching Osborn's every move.

"This is all old hat for you, though, isn't it, Norman?" Reed said. "The records in that folder are from your computers. Twelve years of cover-ups. Every punchchard, every saved document, every hard drive made into paper copies and verified. They go back to the Oscorp days, and they don't lie. There's nothing left for you to hide behind."

This in itself was a remarkable showing for Reed Richards. A nominally quiet man who ordinarily expressed opinions only when asked? This was a step forward as much as it was a dog and pony show.

When he wanted to be, Reed was all bluster.

But he was also quite skilled at making sure Osborn couldn't figure that out.

Osborn's face went blank for a moment. He glanced at the folder and then at Reed. Then he scowled. It went something like this: because of a slight overbite, his incisors clamped on each other instead of the molars. His face sort of angled out because the jaw starting creeping out to form a vastly annoyed grimace. On his brow and streaming down his face, strands of sweat mixed with the grime and blood and made him look.

Sick.

Then Osborn started shaking.

"You framed Mendell Stromm," Richards said. "Took the Goblin formula and left him to die."

Johnny again: "And you sat by and watched while your son got lost in a damn drug dependency."

"Stop it!" Osborn yelled it at the top of his lungs. His voice cracked, and he was still shaking.

Johnny Storm: "You kidnapped May Parker and buried her alive."

Barton again: "Spider-Man even told us about this Gabriel Stacy. About how you manipulated him into hating Spider-Man. About how you took advantage of Gwen Stacy."

Reed: "Come on, Norman, admit it!"

"ENOUGH!"

Osborn yelled it. Bellowed it. His Adam's Apple sunk as the words thundered out, his neck musculature sticking out like a bunch of tight wires underneath red and leathery skin. And he was still shaking. His breath, when it came, did so in short and empty wisps.

He spoke. A cobbled assortment of rage and desperation. "Is this what you want, you smarmy little bastards?! You want me to admit it all? Based on some files you lifted from my private servers? How wildly illegal of you, Dr Richards. I should have shut you down and sent you Mexico when I had the chance!"

Barton stepped forward. "Shut up, Norman! Just shut up! Admit it!"

"I admit nothing! And here you all stand ready to throw me into the Raft for a bunch of lies."

"They're not lies." Barton was doing his best to compose himself. Hands inside black leather gloves tightened around his buckled nunchuks. And squeezed.

"Then prove it!" Osborn shouted. "And find out, Barton!"

Spider-Man stood from the crouch. And got in Norman's face.

"The fact that you're still here means something," Spidey said in his most pathological. "If you were guilty, sure, you would've bolted for the door or even taken a flying leap out the window. Maybe your glider's out there waiting to catch you. It's pretty clever PR. Thinking you can still get out of this. Am I right?"

Osborn looked over Spider-Man's shoulder, shooting Reed Richards a death glare. Then he whispered in Spidey's ear, "You go right to Hell, Parker." Louder, and with more hate going into it, he belted, "And you stay there!"

And punched Spider-Man in the chest.

The webslinger tottered backwards, caught by Susan Storm.

Johnny Storm flamed on and hovered a foot in the air.

Osborn stood there, unmoving, his hands balled into fists. His mouth in a stone-set scowl. Blood and sweat were still coursing down his forehead.

"You want to arrest me?" he said. "Do it. You think I'm the Green Goblin? Yes, I was! WAS! I'm not in that goddamn suit anymore and there are files in there that prove that too. But you didn't bother to read those did you, Richards? You saw a conspiracy, probably because our mutual friend Mr Parker here told you there was one, and you ran with it."

"Osborn—"

"Shoot me!" Osborn said and offered his hands out again. "Do it! If you're so desperate to have that class-act Nick Fury back controlling you all! Shoot me! See what happens."

Then none of them did anything.

Noh Varr and the Sentry had moved to join Reed and the rest, facing Osborn.

They were all to focused on what was going on behind Osborn.

The elevator doors were.

Bubbling.

Two broad and reflexive horns slid out from the doors. Followed by a golden helm, sitting on a bowed head.

Loki. In a gilded hauberk with a green armour-plated cuirass covering that. Broad spaulders, also gilded, with runes running along the edges. Bronze plate faulds at his waist. And a brass scabbard hanging loosely at his waist.

He had apparated from nowhere. Using the elevator door as a gateway.

Osborn turned around. And his heart sunk. His head lolled to one side.

Loki's gilded gauntlet wrapped around Osborn's throat.

And lifted him.

"Poor Norman," he said in a simple and attractive and pathological tone. "My dear Norman. You've been misused. And now your crimes have been laid bare. Ironic isn't it? In the end, poor defenceless Peter Parker didn't have to defeat you. It was I."

Osborn was still shaking. His eyes grew wide.

And he tried to grab at Loki, but the God of Mischief stopped it.

He simply let go. And Osborn fell to his knees like a limp rag.

A yoke apparated from nothingness around Osborn's shoulders. Chains crept out from the wood and wrapped themselves around his wrists. Tightened them up to the beam. Osborn's head bowed under the weight, and he did not move.

Then Loki pulled Tyrfing from its scabbard and pointed the razor edge at the base of Osborn's skull.

"Now then. Earth's Mightiest Heroes." Loki said. "Where have I seen this before?"

Reed Richards stepped forward. "Let him go. He's ours."

"Really?" Loki cocked his head and pressed Tyrfing closer in on Osborn's carotid artery. "Then why have you failed to kill him? Why does this man, this duplicitous monster continue to plague your every waking moment, Spider-Man?"

"We don't decide who lives and dies," Richards said. "And he's not one of your Asgardians. I say you can't have him."

"Oh, Dr Richards. Victor was right about you. The vainglorious 'Mister Fantastic' who sees much and covets all and credits none. Who covers his mistakes with arrogance and a profundity of ego unmatched in this or any other reality." Loki frowned, empathizing with all the heavy-handedness he could muster. "You are not in a position to demand things from the God of Mischief, Reed Richards."

At that, Bucky Barnes let loose. "That's it," he said, and flung his shield at Loki.

It passed right through Osborn. Right through the God of Mischief.

Slammed into the brick wall and stayed there.

Loki rematerialized and watched it with detached amusement. Then he turned back to the heroes. Osborn was on his knees still, chained to the yoke. Silent.

"Spider-Man," Loki said. "For some reason I cannot fathom, you have a strong presence in the ethereal vapours; your willpower is known to the Ancients as much as to the Asgardians. This burden shall be yours to bear."

Under the form-fitting facemask, Peter Parker was confused and a made a face to reflect it. "Huh?"

Then Loki's face was suddenly severe. The eyes sunken and the brow drawn tight under the golden helm. In thunderous simplicity, he merely said. "Kill Norman Osborn!"

Spider-Man's heart sunk at that.

"Is this some joke?"

"No." It wasn't. "Choose. Choose and suffer."

A moment later: "I...can't." It was a quiet response, desperate and sad. "It's. It's not what I do."

Loki was unamused. "This man will kill your friends. And your family. He has terrorized you for a decade and he will terrorize you for years to come. You know this. You will fight him without end. You will chase him to the ends of the earth and around the rocks of Jötunheim. Again and again and AGAIN until you're both dead. Is that what you want?"

"Dude," Spidey said. "Are you talking about me and Osborn or you and Thor?"

Another gesture.

The yoke tightened.

Osborn screamed. As his shoulders broke.

"Now." Loki asked. "Tell me, Spider-Man, is it a question of ethics? Do you believe you can save Norman Osborn? Do you believe this cycle of violence can ever end? So long as he lives?"

Bucky pulled the gun from his waist-holster and levelled it at Loki's forehead. It was a perfectly slow, perfectly calm action. And still, none of them stopped him.

For some reason, they were all holding back.

Probably because Spider-Man was, too.

"Make your choice, Peter Parker," Loki said. "Life or death. There is no other. You know he has no honour. That is why Noh Varr and Robert Reynolds have not acted on his behalf yet, because they know his treachery. Robert has seen it. In the ashen eternity which The Void provides, he has seen Norman Osborn as he is. Not as he wishes to be. No one in this room will save him, or condemn him. That stays with you, Peter Parker, the condensation of all your rage, the sum of all your hate. Made material, in this man."

"You're wrong," Spidey says. "This is a trick. I know what you're doing. You're trying to call my bluff."

"Your world is awash with theft and deceit, Spider-Man. This one is no different. Kill him." Loki's eyes were clam and yet burning. Locked on Spider-Man's own. Going through to Peter Parker's soul. "Kill your hated enemy. Spare the world this obscene human parasite...and give yourself a long earned respite."

Spider-Man waited a moment longer.

_You can't, Parker._

_You just can't._

_He's a guilty man. He did all of those things and you know it. And this will be the only chance anyone gets to getting him on it, and you know that. And he's going to walk away, and you know that, too._

_God._

_Loki's right._

_But it's not in you, Peter. _

_This is now how we solve things._

_You just. Don't. Have. It._

_Killing is never the way out._

_You can't._

_Because._

_You're better than Norman Osborn._

_You were raised too well, Peter._

_You can't kill._

_Not even._

_Him._

_Everything the same._

_You can't kill him._

Spider-Man looked at Loki.

And said, "No."

And Loki said, "Very well."

And started to disappear in a flash of green energy.

Seeing it in slow motion, Spider-Man dove into the breach. The light was blinding. Hot. Lunch was on its way up as gravity inverted itself. And he kept reaching for Loki. And Osborn.

_You can't kill him._

_Because then he wins._

_And Gwen loses._

_All the rest is darkness.

* * *

_

_**Continued...**  
_


	11. Negative I

_**Author's Note**_: This might be the most derivative instalment yet. It borrows primarily and heavily (which is really the same thing I guess) from Jeph Loeb's 2001 miniseries Spider-Man: Blue, particularly the parts about a certain blonde bombshell and her relation to humble Peter Parker. Elsewhere we have our million-and-first reference to Mark Waid's FF story 'Authoritative Action' (_Fantastic Four _#503-508), as well as to Brian Bendis' _Secret War_ and some of the ethical questions that came out of those two stories. Further on, when our God of Mischief starts veering off the reservation, he hearkens back to the classic Avengers story _Ultron Unlimited_. And we finally figured out a way to put Hank Pym in here. Not sure if it works, but it was an interesting way to craft an outsider's view of things, what with Hank having been in Skrull custody since the end of _Disassembled_. Elsewhere, the idea that the Negative Zone is where the dreaded Void is at his most powerful comes from the 2005 _Sentry _miniseries by Paul Jenkins and John Romita, Jr, which itself is the second instalment of the 2001 miniseries penned by Jenkins and the inimitable Jae Lee. And if what I've done with Johnny Storm seems somehow odd or misplaced, let me know. We'll fix it faster than you can say Spidey Marriage.**  
**

* * *

**The Negative Zone.**

**Spider-Man.**

_Flying._

_That's what it feels like. What it's always felt like._

_Your stomach tightens and maybe your heart sinks. Maybe your jaw clenches and you start to sweat. All awkward and all class. You're a little cold. Clammy?  
_

_But you notice her._

_The rest of the world sort of fades away. Or slows down. Other people just don't seem as interesting. Or entirely real. The background blurs, which makes them insignificant._

_Which makes her stand out._

_Gwen Stacy._

_All kinds of amazing._

_In the black skirt and the knee-high boots and the white tee under a corduroy jacket. Simple and beautiful. _

_Gwen riding on the rear seat of the motorcycle, tooling down 42__nd__ Street._

_Gwen coming in at midnight, seeing you getting ready for bed. Asking if you would be her Valentine. _

_Gwen traipsing into your room with a copy of Huckleberry Finn under her arm, waiting there like she does and waiting for Mary Jane to get through with you._

_The rest is all._

_Light._

_And then there's Gwen waking up next to you, and in the morning cold she wraps the sheets tight around her and slides out of bed and asks if you want something. And you smile back and cock your head and you shiteatingly say "pancakes!" like a giddy six-year old._

_And you think of the kids._

_And._

_(that's not how it happened)_

_You and Gwen Stacy had a great life. She had a great life. Rather. And you did too once._

_(but it all ended)_

_You grew up and saved her from Norman Osborn and you went off to live happily ever after._

_(no she died Norman threw her off the bridge and she died it was the shock or maybe)._

_Maybe you would've lost her up there. But you didn't. And this is the thought that wakes you every few days, thinking you indeed lost her and that you're living in some happy dream._

_(aren't I?)_

_But this is no dream. You're alive and she's alive as ever and in her naked glory lying on the bed next to you, the only thing you can think of is how great life is._

_Then she sits down on the edge of the bed and says, "Peter we need to talk." And you say, "Okay sure," not really thinking but expecting the worst. Because that's what you historically do. Then she leans in close and says, "Was this all a lie? Because I think it was." And you say, "What? No, a lie, how could it be, I love you Gwendy." And you don't really think through that either because you're happy as long as Gwen is in the same freaking zip code as you, let alone the same bed. "No," so you say and keep saying and she keeps not buying it. "I see the way you look at MJ," she says, "Girl like that, who wouldn't be interested." And then you're in close too, kissing her shoulders and working your way to her ruby lips and saying, "Gwendy, you're the only one I'm looking at, I love you, why would I care about MJ?" "But you do," she says, "We all see it, even Flash and his leadpipe-for-a-brain sees it, Petey, so what are we doing here?" "I love you!" you say and keep saying and it's all you can say._

_Dream ended.  
_

_Because you realize that's all you'll ever have._

_Love for Gwen. Gwendy._

_And she'll always have more. She'll always be the One That Picked You. Especially when she could have had Flash's great looks or Harry's money. A LOT of Harry's money. She chose you and this makes her better than you. Because you're just little Peter Parker and she's._

_Oh God, she's Gwen Stacy._

_All sorts of amazing._

_You realize, as she gets dressed and heads for the door and doesn't even look at you over your protests. You realize that all you'll ever have is that pedestal on which she stands, and she'll have the high ground. She'll always be the better woman, because you're so afraid to let her in and you're afraid to be Peter Parker._

_And its Peter Parker that she's leaving for Harry or Flash or even parts unknown. Gwen is still there leaving, because you didn't do enough, or because you did too much. You think that this moment might exist at all points in space-time. That she is leaving. Has left. Is going to leave. Has been gone._

_This moment is timeless and it's going to be Peter Parker's great failure._

_She's always going to leave, and it won't even be in the cold of night like this. In another reality you won't get to say goodbye to her, but here all you've got is hounding desperately after a woman who's not hearing it. A woman you loved and lost because you overplayed it. Because you were so STUPID. Because you didn't want to let her in and because she got sick of waiting._

_(NO!)_

_Because you made a promise to a dead man that you'd take on the responsibility of caring. But you haven't really cared in years. You've just been locked in a cycle of death and compromise and what has that gotten you?_

_You always lose everyone, Peter._

_That's what.

* * *

_

**The Baxter Building.**

**Hank Pym.**

The elevator was taking forever. Like it usually did.

'Course, for the perpetually punctual, like Pym, things were always going slower than they were meant to. God's cruel trick on the timekeepers. And then there was the other 'of course' of Pym's life. That time was all he had now.

Since Janet.

There was none of that horribly disjointed elevator music playing. The walls were pressed bronze panels meant to look like the skyline of Manhattan. It was Reed's dalliance with Art Deco, and it was actually pretty good.

Pym didn't have any of that. He never had, and he never would. He would never have the Fantastic Four. Never have a Sue or a Johnny or a Ben. Especially a Sue.

His Sue had been cut down. Destroyed. Lied to and then made into a living weapon. By a Skrull with Hank's face. His voice. His personality.

It was a cruel joke on what he had done with Ultron.

Hank had copied his mind into Ultron's, and the Skrulls copied Hank's into one of theirs.

So his own mind wasn't even his property anymore. It had been taken.

Now he was going to get it back.

_Yeah, right, Pymmie._

Of course, Pym going all militant was to be expected. He could stand and ceremony and fill himself with piss and vinegar with the best of them.

But he couldn't keep it up.

_Can you, Hankie?_

_(Stop it)_

The elevator slowed. Then stopped. The computer made a soft ping and said, ' Welcome, Henry Pym' and the doors slid open.

The lounge before him was a stylistic holdover. It looked like had been born in the 50s and never left. The TV in the open credenza at the far end of the room probably still got the Dumont Network. The stairs were spiral and led upstairs to what Pym knew to be the living quarters, and a floor above that, the laboratories. They were the sort of Brady Bunch stairs: long composite planks stuck in the wall in a shallow spiral. Best not to make them too steep.

Pym took a deep breath. He had been here at least once before since his. Um.

_Return, Pymmie. Return._

Return. Even that didn't really do it justice.

He sat in one of the long and low Davenports, the kind you sink into with red velveteen covering it and the high arms. It was murder for his posture but damn was it comfortable. He looked to one side. A square in the wall had been made into floor-to-ceiling glass; a window to look out at the city. Except Reed was probably still calling them 'viewports' in his Cousteau way.

His mouth hung open for a minute and he rubbed dry, cracked lips. He hadn't showered in days.

Couldn't.

Even given everything he'd done in his time back, it still ate at him. A pathetic little rat trying desperately to kill what was left of Hank Pym.

The word 'desperately' at least meant he was getting somewhere.

The dreams were happening only a few nights a week now instead of every goddamn night.

Janet screaming at him.

He'd seen the news feeds after D-Day. So he had a frame of reference to the macabre. Saw her grow in size, bigger than ever before. On her mammoth knees, crying out. Stomping Skrulls and heroes alike and flooding them as one gigantic tear landed on a group. Saw Thor call her up in a big twister.

And then nothing.

Central Park was quiet. The kind of quiet that happens after such a tornado, where no one's really sure what the hell happened, only that they've just checked to make sure their balls didn't get carried away too.

He drew a breath through his nostrils, and rubbed his lips again.

"Oh God," he said and it was a whisper.

Though of Janet again.

And he wondered what she was thinking in those last few minutes. If she knew or even sensed somehow that the guy who'd given her the enlarging serum was not her once and future husband.

"Hank?"

He looked up. Torn from his daydream.

Reed was standing at the foot of the spiral staircase in full lab attire. The coat unbuttoned, with a few grease smears across the pockets, a clipboard tucked under one arm.

Hank stood and rushed across, throwing his hand out lazily and shaking Reed's.

"How are you?" Reed asked, and Pym shook his head and said, "Oh fine fine, I guess. You?"

"Oh," Reed said and hesitated. 'We've had some better days."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It's been quite a madhouse here, I have to say."

"I heard about the Lincoln bombing," Pym said, with some apprehension. "I'm sorry I couldn't be down there. The team was in Wundagore again."

Reed waved his hand. "No apology needed," he said. "We got what we needed. As it turns out, the bombing was just step one."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It came across my table that Norman Osborn was working with some unsavoury fellows."

"How unsavoury? Like, Stilt-Man unsavoury or better? Er, worse. As it were."

"Loki," Reed said. "If you believe that. And the Mole-Man. And Victor."

"Doom?"

"Yes."

"God." That floored Pym. Victor von Doom was a real piece of work. Real dangerous. Real brilliant. And real mad. He had found a way, among other things, to combine the definitions of 'mad' into his sorcery and his science as well as his unbridled hatred for Reed Richards. It was almost a laudable reconstruction of a life. Except that it was Doom. It always seemed to be Doom.

The spiral staircase ended. Ahead of Pym and Richards lay a wide expanse of Reed's lab. Done up in blue hues for the most part. It was either aesthetic choice or practicality. A lot of the machines in this lab cost thousands and millions; they were composed of top-flight materials that the United States military didn't even really have. Carbonadium synthesizers. Adamantium containment chambers leading to the Darkforce Dimension gateway. Molecular destabilisors that required the power-cell taken out and locked in another secure location, lest the already spotty half-life sputter around and decide on an impromptu discharge, neutronizing everything around it for three feet. And of course, at the far end of the room, in an octagonal containment skeleton made of vibranium and adamantium plating, the Negative Zone gateway.

This was the real weapon of mass destruction. Reed Richards' lab. And it wasn't hyperbole to say so, either. But. Since it was Richards, the US government decided not to slap a bunch of warnings and restrictions on him.

He had made his name back.

Maybe Pym envied that a bit.

"What are you going to do?" Pym asked.

"This," Reed said, and extended an open hand to the rest of the lab.

And the rest of Reed's family was there too. Johnny shot him a quick wink and the Buddy Christ. Ben and Sue, sure, all good.

And Luke Cage. The new Captain America. Bobbi Morse in a decidedly retro-chic Mockingbird suit. Jessica Drew dressed in her Spider-Woman bit and still looking sort of.

Like one of them.

And Clint Barton in some kind of ninja suit.

Wolverine. 'Cause it's always Wolverine.

And Cyclops. Scott Summers.

And The Sentry.

And Noh Varr.

And Ares. The God of War.

Pym hung away from them, staying behind Reed with an awkward stance and a vacant stare. He felt out of place.

He thought about Jan again.

In those last few seconds as she was begin swept away.

If she knew it wasn't him. Or thought it was. If she was crying because of the physical pain or because of something else. Something decidedly unquantifiable that had caused her more pain than anything else.

If she hated him up until the end.

If her last act was killing all those Skrulls, and doing it as a giant fuck-you to him. Because she'd thought it was him.

If she was distilling everything she hated and feared about Henry Pym into her death.

If she still loved him...

"Hank?"

Another daydream. He snapped out of it and looked at Reed. The rest of the room was looking at him too.

"Hank, Reed repeated. " Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said and didn't really think about it. "Yeah, I'm okay. Please." He waved his hand and scratched his head. "Please go on, Reed."

Reed turned around. Mechanically he resumed his opening remarks to the group. "...Anyway, twenty minutes ago at Avengers Tower, Loki showed up and kidnapped Norman Osborn. My instrumentation shows their trajectory to have been the Negative Zone."

Wolverine piped in: "Why's this important to us? Let em rot!"

Captain America was standing next to Logan. "It's not that simple," he said. "If what you've compiled is true, Reed."

"It is."

"If it is," Cap said, sticking to the benefit of the doubt, "and if Osborn was working with Loki for some reason, then we have to assume whatever that deal was, it fell apart. Loki got dissatisfied and changed his mind—because that's what he does."

Johnny raised his hand, a well-trained student. The index finger burned with a tiny pilot light that Johnny noticed and promptly blew out. "I don't get it," he said. "Why's this important to us?"

"Because," Reed said. "Norman was trying to blame all of us for his trangressions, and I don't believe for one second that it works that way" He looked at the group ahead of him. "You all know me to be a man of honour, but I admit I've made mistakes in the past. We all have. My family invaded Latveria once upon a time, and we were asked to leave. It took nearly a year to get our reputations back. Tony Stark lost his job as Secretary of Defence, but he rebounded and came to run SHIELD. And now he's out on the lam again. Wonder Man used to be a criminal. So did you, Clint. And poor James there was once a programmed killing machine for the Kremlin." Pause. "We've all done things none of us are proud of." Pause. "Now, that said, I believe what Spider-Man said. I have no reason not to. Norman Osborn has stolen, murdered and cheated his way through life, and we believe he has taken the reins on HAMMER with the intention of selling this country and its heroes to the wolves. He's left a trail of human wreckage behind him, not the least of which includes his own son. Captain America, Clint Barton and my family all agree. This cannot stand. You all know there's only one way to stop Osborn. We must go to the Negative Zone and retrieve him."

"Yes," Barton said. "We get him and bring him back and throw him in The Hague."

Reed's face bent into a calm 'well sort of' look. "A flawless idea, Clint, but it doesn't solve the long-term goal."

"He has to pay!" Johnny said and threw his hands in the air. "Look at what he's done to Spider-Man! Look at what he tried to do with Loki and Dr Doom!"

"You're right," Reed said. "But a murder charge won't do it. I made a recording of the session at Avengers Tower; it's on its way to Washington as we speak. But I fear that won't be enough."

"Then we catch him in his own lies," Johnny said. "Get something that proves he's nuts—and that he's been dealing under the table for months. Years."

No one said anything.

"Guys?"

Nothing.

Johnny stepped forward.

"Look, guys, I don't do the big speech thing so well, but this is important to me. Someone like Norman Osborn doesn't understand us—he's spent his adult life trying to kill one of the good guys—how could he? He doesn't understand what makes us tick. He likes to think he does, but he doesn't. He doesn't know anything about honour, or friendship. He doesn't know what makes us get out of bed in the morning. He's spent ten years trying to drive Spider-Man batty, and now he's got eyes on the whole world. This isn't a joke."

A few feet back, Susan bowed her head and covered a growing smile with both hands. This was Johnny. In a whole new. A whole new light. He got this way from time to time, and it was always a surprise when it happened. Always.

"So that's it," Johnny said. "The Negative Zone gateway is right here. I'm going in there to get my friend back. None of you have to go."

He turned and walked up the ramp.

Ben Grimm followed. He said nothing, only slapped a giant rocky hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled as much as his distinctive bouldered physique would allow.

Sue went after them. "Johnny, wait."

They looked back. She was walking forward to join them, meeting with Johnny's smile in mutual admiration. Then Reed was there, too.

Then Wolverine came forward with his shoulders swaggering and his head bowed. Eyes locked on Johnny and pretending to seriousness when he was really living through a bad memory. Two years ago. He'd ripped Fury to bits. Or what turned out to be an LMD. Over a goddamn standard mindwipe. Hadn't apologised for it. Apologising was unprofessional.

_You don't mess with my mind!_

_(Yeah. I know, bub.)_

He got in Johnny's face and said, "Y'know, kid, Nick Fury thought he could run off and do this sort of thing. Lost his job over it. You sure you're doin the right thing?"

Johnny cocked his head and smiled. "I'll take my chances."

Wolverine snorted.

And shook Johnny's hand.

The gateway glittered to life; an undulating vertical ocean leading into the heart of the Negative Zone.

Ben hesitated for a moment. He looked at the glowing blue gateway, then at Johnny.

"Nice speech, Matchstick. Almost brought a tear to my eye."

"That must have hurt." Johnny winked. Flamed on. Took a foot in the air and cracked his knuckles. Next to him, Wolverine popped his claws out.

Behind them, Reed said, "Alright, this should open right out into the Prison. I don't know what could be on the other side. Could be Blastaar, could be nothing. Get ready."

"Got it," Ben Grimm said and punched one hand into the other's open palm. Luke Cage did the same. Clint Barton pulled out his nunchucks and whirled them around, finally tucking them under one arm. Waiting. Mockingbird grasped his fingers in her own and sighed. A deep sigh of waiting. Expecting. And maybe even joy, at getting back into battle.

"Sue," Reed said. "You're sure Thor is on his way?"

"Oh yes," she said as she went invisible. "On his way from a tsunami in Thailand. Told him we'd leave a light on."

"Right."

Jessica Drew stuck her fingers out and they started to glow with the green energy of her venom blasts.

Captain America checked the ammo on his sidearm and then holstered it. Slide the shield around over his shoulders.

Pym pulled off his jacket. Underneath was the Yellowjacket uniform. It wasn't the modified Wasp suit he'd used with his own team, but that was okay for him. This was an independent thing. And he'd always felt a nice sort of affinity for the Yellowjacket suit. More so than the others. He let the jacket fall lazily, and then pulled on the hood with its yellow goggles. Grew three feet.

Ares tightened his grip on his battle-axe.

Noh Varr pulled the energy pistol from his waist.

Cyclops closed his eyes in the instant before crossing over. Focusing himself. And missing Emma.

And The Sentry, Robert Reynolds, was having another one of his out of body moments.

_The Negative Zone, Sentry._

_The Void welcomes you back...

* * *

_

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

**Spider-Man.**

The first instance of light in Peter Parker's eyes brought pain. More so than usual.

He was lying in his back, and he knew this because if he lay perfectly flat or perfectly still for a long time his shoulder started to act up.

He sat up slowly and groaned and scratched his head.

Didn't bother asking where he was, because the answer was right in front of him. Like usual but especially now.

Loki was standing there in some damn confabulation of armour, with gilded plating across the torso and shoulder paulders. Dr Doom was standing next to him, his green cloak draped over him. He looked like a floating curtain with a metal skull for a head. A quintet of giant rocky things with the classic Cylon uni-eye stood behind him.

They were standing in the middle of a long catwalk done up in silver armour-plating. In the recesses on either side were Doombots. A shitload of Doombots.

Up ahead in the distance, on a wide dais, there was Namor, one hand on his hip, the other wrapped tightly around a gilded trident. He was, as usual, giving Spider-Man the perpetual sourpuss look. Surrounded by a group of his blue-skinned Atlanteans friends with swords in one hand and polearms in the other.

And Emma Frost was there too, with three girls who looked exactly freaking like her standing around her.

And the Mole-Man with a couple of the shrivelled little yellow guys with bad odours, bad manners, and the weirdest damn killing instinct this side of Kraven.

And a big stocky Asgardian-type fellow with a big honkin battle axe, and about ten other big Asgardian types behind the first guy. All with battle axes.

More good news.

Peter Parker frowned through the facemask as he finally sorted it all out.

Then he looked at Loki again, and it made sense.

"You messed with my mind!" Spider-Man said and flew forward. The lunge required what energy he had left, and he threw his hands in front of him. He was going to choke the life from Loki.

But he stopped in mid-air.

Dr Doom had one of his steel-plated arms thrown forth, the fingers extended skyward. The demagogue appealing to his people. Or shushing an already entranced crowd. It was the latter for Parker, except for that whole entranced bit.

Invisible fibres of mystical source held Spider-Man motionless in the air.

"Your parlour tricks have no place here," Dr Doom said.

Loki stepped forward and touched Spider-Man's chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger. Alas Poor Parker, we knew ye well.

"What the hell did you do?" He was almost barking it at Loki.

"I gave you an image of what your life was—or, might have been."

"Clever," Spider-Man said and didn't mean it. "I've fallen for that before. What chance did you think you stood?"

"A slim one, I must admit," Loki conceded. "But it was a meaningful exercise. I perceived the deepest parts of your brain. I explored your fears and loves and longings and anxieties. It was most illuminating."

"Why?"

"I wanted to tamper, if you wish me to be fully honest," Loki said and offered his hands in a contrite apologetic. "I wanted to see what it was that warranted such attention from your Norman Osborn. And of course, I altered the manuscript somewhat."

"Where is he?"

Loki said nothing to that. Only raised his head a degree so he could look down his nose at Spider-Man. The nostrils flared and stayed there for a moment. "He is safe."

"Why am I here?"

Then Loki laughed. "My dear boy, I took your friend Osborn and brought him here. It was you who followed against all rationale. Are we really going to have a culpability argument? While we're on the subject, this army you see before you?"

"Yeah." Spider-Man saw them from his periphery. Lots of Doombots. LOTS of Doombots.

"They are a defence mechanism. Meant to keep us safe from your friends."

"Funny," Spider-Man said. "I keep my friends safe from people like you."

Loki snorted. Turned away.

"You are a most interesting creature, Peter Parker. You've experienced death, the betrayal and loss of your friends. You're a mere man by our conventions, and yet you have seen much. You know all there is of life and death. The fates have gambled your life recklessly for lo, these many years. And yet you persist, when a saner man might have shot himself in the head."

"Because," Spider-Man choked out, "It's the right th—"

"Be silent," Loki said and scowled. "I am not interested in your justifications. All that matters is that you see things carried out to your satisfaction, Peter Parker. And that is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you aren't going to ask how I've come by that knowledge?"

"Not really," Spidey said. "You're a god. You do things like this."

"That I am," Loki said and bowed with a wide grin. When he came back up, his face was severe again, the eyes piercing right through Parker. "But it doesn't really matter who I am, Peter. May I call you Peter?"

Spidey shrugged as much as he could.

Loki chortled. Once. A brief affair that mixed air forcing out of his nostrils with a quiet chirp from high in his throat.

Dr Doom gestured again, and Spider-Man levelled out on the armour-plated floor. No longer bound by gossamer threads of infinity.

The God of Mischief turned in place and strolled backward on the catwalk. Ahead lay a vast glass window. If Spider-Man had craned his head all the way back and kept looking up, he would have had to lay on the floor to see the ceiling, gaping in the distant heights. The window—and that was the closest thing he could call it—stared out at a scarred and pock-marked lunar surface. The starfield was brilliant. Shimmering. Alive.

And then he figured it out.

"Oh God," he said. "This. This is. The Negative Zone prison."

"Correct," Loki said. His back turned to Spider-Man, his head angled slightly, staring at the shifting blue-white surface of the planet Baluur in the distance. He half-turned back to Spider-Man. "Peter Parker, you identified me a moment ago as your God of Mischief."

"Not my God," Spidey said. Crossed his arms over his chest.

Loki went on like he hadn't heard that. "I'm so much more now. So much has changed since the rebirth cycle. Thor is gone. Asgard is mine. And your pitiful world shall soon be mine as well. Does that please you, Peter?"

"Look, I know what you're doing. The Bond speech. I grew up on those, courtesy of Norman Osborn. You know 'im, you just shanghaied him away from Manhattan a second ago. You tell me where he is, I'll take him back and you and Doomsie can go back to whatever the hell it is you're doing in here. None of us has to speak of this ever again."

Loki's half-turned became a full one. He was facing Spider-Man head-on now, and he looked absolutely disgusted. The slender and pompous face had bent itself into a hideous glower. Offended at the thought of unrecognition.

"You think this is about Osborn?" Then he laughed, deep and unctuous. "You mortals do astonish me from time to time. No, this is not about Norman Osborn. For surely as Yggdrasil is strong, Norman Osborn is but a pebble floating in the ocean. He is nothing, Peter Parker. Nothing! The roots of all our lives go very deep, and Norman Osborn's have not even seeded themselves. He's a shell, a wasted carapace who thinks he runs things. This is an old refrain we have used for some time."

"Then why bother with the speech?" Spider-Man asked.

Loki cocked his head tiredly. "Because, Spider-Man, you are the perfect witness to my glorious mystical proof. You have seen much and gone far and yet your eyes do not wander. You do not seek dominion or wealth. Yours is a far more provincial, if more laudable and consequently less interesting, goal. You want justice."

"And you want to kill everyone," Spider-Man said. "You know I can't let you do that."

Loki stormed toward him. His gait had a forward swagger, his shoulders swung grandly and the boots and grieves clanked like a mess. Spider-Man was actually suppressing a chuckle as the God of Mischief came barrelling toward him.

Then Loki drew a sword from a brass scabbard, raised it wide around his waist. And let it fly.

The tip caught Spider-Man six inches above his crotch. It sliced through the suit and the skin and for a moment he thought his intestines would come bubbling out after the broken hoses of blood calmed down.

So Parker stood there for the next moment in a daze, clutching his stomach and watching the blood stick to his gloves in hot and gooey bands, and felt lunch churning itself in response. And he really wanted to go home right about now.

Loki slid the sword back into the scabbard and turned away. The whole thing took about three seconds.

"You are fortunate, Peter Parker. The Eddas tell of Tyrfing killing someone every time it is drawn. But for you, I make this exception."

Slowly, Spider-Man looked up at Loki.

Loki's face was drawn now. The features were drawn and smooth, the eyes sort of. Glistening. "I don't want to kill you," he said. "Or your friends. I want to show them the truth. I want to indulge their double-standards to their logical extreme. And I want you to be there, mortal."

Spider-Man chuckled.

Behind him, he heard crackling. He was no Reed Richards. Not even Hank Pym.

But since he was usually right about these things, he guessed it was some kind of gateway. One that Loki, for all his godhood, had apparently overlooked.

So he said, "Okay, Loki," calmly enough. "You win."

And sort of. Bent over.

The gateway behind him crackled with bioelectric discharge: the undulating field of blue energy that comprised the proper barrier swelled out. Spider-Man saw it in slow motion.

Johnny Storm was the first through.

He picked up Spider-Man. And then they were airborne, and going ever higher.

Johnny had come for him.

Spidey looked down.

The Thing was the next one out of the gate. Then Wolverine. Both of whom dove headlong into one of the Doombot recesses and started doing their thing.

Cyclops blasted a wide swath of Servo-Guards away. He spotted Namor. And started running for him.

Doom raised one arm and blasted away at Reed Richards.

Susan Storm and Jessica Drew leapt into the pit of Servo-Guards, followed swiftly by Mockingbird.

Noh Varr and Ares went for the Asgardians, leaping over the God of Mischief as they went.

Loki cocked his head. Surrounded himself in the impenetrable green umbra and deflected the flotsam and Doombot parts flying errantly around him. Then he saw them.

The one called Luke Cage. And Clinton Barton. And their new Captain America.

The God of Mischief smiled.

And drew Tyrfing from its scabbard.

"Avengers," he said and beckoned them. "I would have words with thee."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	12. Negative II

**Author's Note:** This chapter and the next are the product of one 'session' of writing, if you want to call it that, but for space limitations I've decided to break them up; the idea being that the skirmish within Prison Alpha forms the chapters 'Negative I-III'. This is the second instalment, and the third is on its way as well, which means these notes will cover everything up until the end of Negative III/the next exciting instalment of _Powers _(!)

What I've tried to do here is convey some sense that all our vignettes, except for the first one, are happening roughly simultaneously—as soon as our heroes entered the Negative Zone gateway last instalment, they started hitting things. Thus while the battle is admittedly brief, I hope I've tried to convey a certain totality of it. And since I suck at writing battle scenes, I leave the efficacy of the narration techniques here to you, Dear Readers. The parts with Loki heavily borrow from the film version of Gandalf's descent to the Foundations of Stone and fight with the Balrog Durin's Bane in _The Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers_. Some of the cues are, at least slightly, set to Michael Giacchino's excellent score to _Star Trek_ (2009), which I put on a loop while writing (it's a process). Elsewhere, the idea that Galactus appears different to each race or group of beings comes from one of John Byrne's most novel ideas during his time on the Fantastic Four book in the 1980s, specifically _Fantastic Four_ #262 (January 1984). Similarly, my conception of Yggdrasil comes out of the Tim Burton film 'Sleepy Hollow', specifically the idea that tree roots cna be used as a sort of prison or holding station, and that one can remove or insert things or even people. Finally, I've done away with Thor's Shakespearean diction, mostly because there was no way I could write 'thou hath spirited men from Midgard without counsel!' without a giggle or two. C'est la stylistic vie, I suppose, but as usual, I'll prepare myself for the corrective derisions.

* * *

_**Then.**_

_Blastaar had asked what Victor needed._

_This was it._

_The golden rod in his armoured hand portended the realization of months of planning._

_Blastaar's simian face had contorted into a vastly reluctant grimace, at the request. The lower lip pouted out, strands of saliva dribbled from its corners. His head reclined back and to one side and the eyes stared at the Cosmic Control Rod with a certain amount of distance. If Doom's gambit was correct, then Blastaar looked upon the Rod not as a gift but as a toy. Something he could use to torment those who kept him in shackles, real or metaphorical, although Doom was unclear if Blastaar knew what metaphors were.  
_

_Blastaar had never gotten over his subjugation. Was still revenging himself against a cruel and quite properly dead former master._

_Annihilus does not live, Doom had told him. This realm is yours, to mould as you see fit._

_Blastaar handed the Rod over after a moment's hesitation._

_Doom had turned around and promptly laid it in the grimey and plump hands of the Mole-Man. "This shall be in your custody, Dr Elder," he had said. "Until such time as you deem its use appropriate."

* * *

_

**Now.**

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

Harvey Rupert Elder was sort of.

Standing there.

Dazed, in a low hunch—which was more or less how he usually stood—staring out at the catwalk a few meters ahead.

Dr Doom and Reed Richards were standing face to face, waist-deep in one of their lavish conversations. In one of the pits, The Thing was punching out Doombots left and right. In another, Susan Storm was flinging Spider-Woman around; both were vaporizing lumbering Servo-guards.

Loki had disappeared. As had Spider-Man and the Human Torch.

Harvey Elder wished he could be there for it. But Victor had told him to stay put. He did so dutifully, watching the simultaneity of it all.

* * *

**Loki—**

Had been standing in the middle of the catwalk when the heroes broke through. Tyrfing had hung at his side and he wore a thin and amused smile. Business as usual for the God of Mischief. He had waved a finger at them, beckoning a confrontation. "Avengers," he'd said, "I would have words with thee."

It was a channel of Ultron's finest moment.

And they had fallen for it.

Captain America took the shield of his predecessor off his shoulders and ran for the God of Mischief. Luke Cage was next. Then Clint Barton. Henry Pym even followed, dressed in his black and yellow insect suit _du jour_ and standing about twelve feet too tall.

Loki tipped his head to the side. Anxious to avoid a fight, for the armour and Tyrfing were little more than show. An exercise in bullying for the likes of, for instance, Parker Robbins. The truly weak.

To a god. To the God of Mischief and Lies...

All fell short.

The green umbra surrounded him, and he began to fade away behind its electric sizzle.

Too late.

The new Captain America latched on to his right arm, Cage on the other. Clint Barton tackled him in the gut as would one of their earthly foot-ballers. Pym followed.

In the arena of the Negative Zone's Prison-Alpha, the green umbra dissipated.

The five of them fell.

Tyrfing slid from Loki's hand, drifting away and tumbling on the axis of the tang.

All was darkness.

And they fought.

Loki knocked Barton's foolish Oriental weapons away, kicking the man in the chest a moment later and sending him spiralling.

Captain America was on the God's back. Trying to choke him.

The training their 'Soviets' had instilled in him was not designed for this.

Loki reached behind, grabbing James Buchanan Barnes by the axillaries, and hauling him over. Then he slapped him across the face. It was a petty insult—a petty defense—for a petty man. Loki admitted this. Captain America was not worth Loki's best efforts. Not this Captain America.

Pym got in front and started hitting Loki.

Indiscriminately.

Which was quite par for Pym's course.

Loki slapped him, too, and then clutched his throat a moment later.

Loki decided to indulge a human emotional response. Now he was, as they say, really pissed. His eyes burned wildly, his mouth hung open, his face was creased in twisting and confusing lines. He looked savage and old.

"Henry Pym!" Loki thundered the name.

Darkness gave way to gradual light. The quintet found themselves in a cave, falling rapidly to some unknown bottom. A meter away, Clint Barton's shoulder slammed into a rocky outcropping and promptly snapped. He cried out in anguish. Loki throttled Pym again.

"You're the worst one," he barked, and saliva flew onto Pym's face. "All that you love has been lost, everything you touch has turned to ash in your hands!"

"No!" Pym cried and jammed his fists into Loki's face.

The God of Mischief fell back for a moment. Then caught himself. Luke Cage hit him once, twice. Loki countered the third and jammed an armoured hand against Cage's skull. Cage slammed headfirst into, and promptly went through a stalagmite; the kinetic rebound sent him careening into the facing rock wall, also face-first, and slamming througha mess of speleothems.

'Power Man', as they called him, was unconscious, and continued to fall.

Three meters back, Captain America was too far away to do anything. Physics said no.

Loki said yes.

And he got in Pym's face again.

"Your wife is dead," Loki barked. "Your career a failure. Why do you persist?"

Pym punched him. Hard. Loki's head flew back and to the side, and a strand of blood flew out in a straight line.

The outcroppings smoothed a moment later.

Then there was light.

A muted, grey light. Perhaps from some distant lighthouse.

The quintet found themselves enveloped in fog. Mist.

It had come with a lazy speed, which was, given the rate of their descent, or so Pym reasoned in between beatings, was quite astonishing.

It rolled over the outcroppings first. Or maybe they were all rolling into it. Pym, at the head of the falling group, went first. Then Loki—he was the only one who didn't react and therefore probably knew just what in the hell this was. Then Barton, falling as lazily with his broken shoulder. Then unconscious Cage. Then Captain America.

The mist was close and thick, and though were only meters apart, none of them could see the other.

Silence.

Then a thud. A dull pounding off in the distance. Perhaps a splash. Once. Twice. A third time. Fourth.

It was the water slamming into Cage's face that drove him back to the land of the living. That cold and shocking and painful attack of a trillion goddamn tons of water slamming into your face at a trillion goddamn miles an hour. His eyes shot open as soon as he hit the water and he started to scream. But by then he was already five feet under and coming back up. The water invaded his lungs and turned the scream into a mad gurgle.

He erupted out of the misty wake a moment later, throwing his head back and gasping for air in a big and long drag.

Then he slunk down a bit. Treaded water for a moment and looked around.

"Clint? Pym?"

He was shivering.

Started swimming.

It was small luck that a coast of some kind was close. The soil was dark, ash-black, and sunk easily underfoot. The kind on volcano slopes. Not. Wherever 'here' was.

Cage got to shore, staggering out of the water and stopping in the beach berm.

Around him the mist was starting to dissipate.

Cage fell to one knee. And saw it.

Ahead lay a great tree, black as the soil. Limbs twisting not so much up as out, contorting around in impractical, expressionistic turns. It was embedded in a bright grey rock, the roots twisting around that too and going into the sand.

"What the hell?"

Cage turned around. His breathing quickened. In the waters, gently lapping against the ash-black sand, Loki rose up. Unaffected. The earth-brown cape was pulled tight around his armour and did not move. Nothing moved. The air was thick. Wherever they were, it felt like time and life had stopped.

Loki bowed his head a bit so his eyes in their sockets looked up at Cage. His thin little mouth was in a minor scowl. But he still looked. Amused.

"Welcome to Niflheim, Luke Cage. A resting place for the unheroic dead."

"What the hell you do with my teammates?"

Loki strode ashore and threw the cape back over his shoulders. The armour, for once, had no light source in which it could glisten.

"Look at that tree."

Cage turned around. The roots that stretched over the rock were as wide as he was.

And they stretched out, separating from one another to reveal the bodies behind them, held in place by alternating and criss-crossing bands of twigs and branches with dead and xanthophilic black leaves on them.

Osborn, in his shredded Iron Patriot armour. Madame Masque in a white and black bodysuit, with a single slit in the sternum. Parker Robbins, in a slashed-up Oxford shirt, a wound on his stomach sewn shut. Cage knew it was Robbins; the straight jawline and the cropped hair and the bold eyes, closed though they were. And even unconscious, he looked pissed off.

Cage turned back to Loki.

"What the hell is that?" he asked and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Yggdrasil. Rather, as close as your feeble human mind could come to rationalizing it."

Luke made a face. "Huh?"

"Save for the timeless gods, all who bear witness to the World Tree experience it differently, and the experience is filtered through others according to the initial image. Much like Galactus the World-Eater. And we exist presently in your manifestation of my underworld. Does this make sense, Luke Cage, or shall I find a markerboard?"

Cage turned back to the World Tree's roots. Osborn was unconscious; Robbins and Masque too.

"Jesus," he muttered.

"We do not allow that word here," Loki said. And drew Tyrfing. He approached Cage and levelled the sword at his side.

"Whoa," Cage said and put up his hands in defense. For once, unwilling to fight.

"You have invaded the realm of the gods and you have brought ruin to your own people. Your lawlessness has allowed the superhuman conflict in your world to continue long after its passage into oblivion. You have become a martyr with no cause, and now you shall pay the price for your lack of vision."

"BROTHER!"

Loki turned in place. On a dime. The cape fluttered out behind him. He lowered Tyrfing.

And felt a breeze.

The mist started to move. Slowly at first. Then it gained speed. And started to whirl around on itself as a vortex.

A storm was coming.

Then The God of Mischief heard thunder. A bolt of lightning followed later.

Out of sequence.

"No," he said and his thin face twisted downward, disgusted. He brought Tyrfing up again.

More thunder.

The mist cleared away, parting like the sea of the Hebraic legends.

Loki squinted, but by the time he did, the God of Thunder was upon him.

Thor came flying low across the Endless Sea. Throwing up a massive wake behind him. His cape streamed behind him in regal majesty. Finally, it seemed, there was light. And it was shining off Thor's silver helm.

It happened in slow motion for Luke Cage.

Thor flying over the Endless Sea, parting the mist. Slamming into Loki and causing another thunderclap, this one directly overhead.

Luke fell to his knees and covered his ears and groaned. It was deafening.

On the shoreline, Thor and Loki were trading blows.

Loki using Tyrfing as a staff, clutching it at the tip and hilt to block Mjolnir's attacks.

Thor had a mad look in his eye. But he was not gone.

He had purpose again.

The golden locks flew out from the silver helm in thin strands. And each blow was harder than the one before.

Loki was on one knee now.

As Thor brought Mjolnir up for another strike, Loki sidestepped and slashed his brother across the cut. He followed through in a swift singularity of a motion. Thor stood and backed away.

"This sword," Loki said and sounded rabid. "Was forged by the dwarves. It cannot be broken. You know this!"

"I have followed this path for days, brother. I sensed your treachery after the death of Bor, and thus exiled myself to Niflheim, correctly surmising that none would find me who knew not where I had fled. How I have waited for some sign of your presence."

"Are you going to kill me, brother?" Loki held his ground and raised his head a degree, exposing the neck. It was partially a show. If Thor wanted to kill him, Loki would have been dead already.

"No," Thor said. "You have imprisoned men of Midgard. Release them."

"Never!" Loki said and brought Tyrfing down. Thor blocked the strike with Mjolnir's topside, and forced Loki back.

"You cannot take victory from this field, brother." Thor offered his free hand to Loki. Who, despite whatever had gone on between them, took it. "They are not your prisoners to judge."

Loki sneered. "The humans are destroying themselves! I devised a solution! I have taken the worst of them--the corrupt and the weak--and imprisoned them here in a state of unliving. They shall plague the humans no longer!"

"Be that as it may," Thor said. "It is not our purpose to interfere."

"Says the man who joined their vengers of his own volition," Loki said and elt out a small and unamused snort.

Thor reflected for a moment, staring at the tree with a vacant stare. Then he said, "It was my choice to make."

"And this is mine."

"It is in opposition to the natural progression of their world. Loki. Hear me. We must be above reproach. Above them."

Loki looked away, at Cage and the roots of the tree. Then he walked over to Osborn's unconscious hulk, strapped behind the mangled roots.

The God of Thunder breathed deep.

"Restore them," the God of Thunder said. "It is the only way. Our fates have always been entwined with theirs, brother. But we cannot let them fall prey to our concerns any longer."

Loki pursed his lips, about to speak. One of his eyebrows arched. He looked up wistfully at the spreading and branches of the tree. It contained no leaves, but Loki knew. Each branch contained a world. Each world, untold mysteries.

For Loki knew Thor's game, and knew it quite well. It was admirable in a sickening way. Thor had made a life out of fighting his way into and out of arguments. That he was taking the effort to simply talk to Loki.

It meant something. Even for a god.

"Very well," Loki said at last.

He raised one hand as he approached the roots. A gap stretched open among the roots, next to Osborn's hulk. The brilliant green umbra surrounded Osborn first, then Madame Masque, then Parker Robbins. The light flashed brilliantly for a moment and then was gone. Along with their bodies.

Loki stood in the gap and lay one hand on a mangled knot. Looked back at Thor.

"Never call upon me again," he said, and walked through. The roots twisted and curled shut after him, wrapping up to the rock face tightly.

Thor went up to Luke Cage.

"What about my teammates?" Cage asked.

'They are safe. They have just reappeared in the Baxter Building."

Cage looked down at the sand. Then back at Thor. And shook his hand.

"Thank you."

Thor smiled. A gentle and powerful affair that lit up bold features and brilliant eyes. Then he said, "Come, Power Man. We shall rejoin them."

* * *

**Susan Storm—**

And Jessica Drew and Mockingbird had taken to a defensive trifecta. It was perhaps a little thick-headed to have dove into the Servo-Guard ranks. Mockingbird had never really fought them. Jessica Drew had been off-planet for about a year. Maybe more.

Sue was really the only one who could get away with saying she knew Doom and his robotic servants. Quite well.

Spider-Woman bumped against Sue. They were back-to-back. Spider-Woman's wrists straightening and curving every few seconds, deflecting an incoming Servo-Guard or vaporizing another's arm. She had the good fortune of being acrobatic enough to launch herself up onto one's head and then backflip over the other side; the one that had been tracking her across the floor, and caused her to leap onto the other's face? Blasted it, right in the collar ring assembly where Spider-Woman's hand had been a second previous.

And it was slightly amusing to her to jam a fist right into one's robo-crotch and amp the venom blasts up to full. The sensor-eyes were red diodes to begin with and when she powered the blasts on, the diodes glowed more brilliant for a moment, before the head exploded and the smoking hulk fell on its back. Dead.

She'd chuckled and moved on.

And now she was at Sue Storm's back. It was actually kind of exhilarating.

The Invisible Woman.

And she was holding her own too. The stories were true.

It was all old hat for Sue Storm, when it came to Doombots and Servo-Guards.

Especially Doombots, some of which were deviating from the Ben-Logan-etcetera fight on the far side of the trench.

Moving her limbs was an exercise in selfishness. If she wanted to, she could just stand there. Surround herself in an impenetrable field and send out barely-visible beams and strands and shards to mess these robots up. As it was, she was combining the two ideas.

She was in a low crouch. A squad of Servos was coming her way, still guided by fundamental rules. Asimov lived on, in Reed's calculations and in Victor's robotics. So the Servos were still salve to planar geometry and attacked as such.

Victor really should have allowed for a nonlinear equation or two. A behaviour randomizing routine in their logic nets.

This was child's play.

She threw both hands forward. And waited for the shards of invisible nothingness to insert themselves into the Servos' eye-sensors, chest dynamos and cranial logic cores.

The heads splintered in the next moment; the steel expressions somehow agonizing as the remnants of six Servo skulls fell to the floor.

Really. Child's play.

"Sue!" It was Spider-Woman.

Another oncoming squad. They seemed to be attacking in fives. Sue threw a force-field around herself and Spider-Woman and Mockingbird, and kept throwing out thin and deadly shards.

"Yes, Jessica?"

"I'm going to flip over your head in a moment. I want you grab my legs and lower your force-field and fling me around. I'm going to try an area of effect with the venom blasts, similar to your brother. Okay?"

"That's a little crude," Sue said. A single Servo lumbered toward her and she actualized three blades, rendered them visible so the Servo could see them. And then did a nice little snicker-snack number, cleaving the damn thing into three pieces and watching it hobble to the ground. Non-functioning.

"I'll swallow my pride. Bobbi?"

"Yeah?"

"Duck. If you can take a few of them with you, even better. Ready?"

"Yep."

Sue lowered her field in the next instant.

Mockingbird dove into a squad of Servos.

Spider-Woman executed her move flawlessly.

Sue grasped Jessica Drew in glinting bands and drew her around in a wide circle.

The venom blasts flew through the Servos, cleaving scores of them in half. Blowing the heads off others.

It took four swings around before Sue let her down.

"I'm sorry," Sue said. "How much do you weigh?"

"About a hundred and eight," Spider-Woman said and smiled. "Thanks Sue."

Behind them, Mockingbird jumped from Servo to Servo. The acrobatics were at once graceful and messy. They consisted of clanking a head or two into one another, kicking one in the chest, the kinetic energy of which knocked the Servo down and allowed her to jump back up on another one. Their reaction times worked out well for Bobbi Morse.

She was well clear of the downed one when another Servo blasted a hole in its chest.

She jumped up on another and swung around, catching it in a headlock, and bringing it down on one of Sue Storm's manufactured light-pikes. Right in the face.

She landed in a crouch and stood slowly. Wiped a smudge of motor oil—robot blood, she thought wistfully—from her chin. Between heavy and greedy gasps, she said, "Yeah, okay. It's good to be back."

Then she dove into another squad.

* * *

**Loki--**

Reverted on the interior side of Castle Doom's eastern veranda.

Ahead lay an ornate square chess table, supported by four curving oaken struts, each carved in the style of a pensive gargoyle. The chessboard itself was carved from a single piece of Carrara marble, the black squares made possible by insertion of Krakatoan volcanic rocks from a century previous.

The Lord of Latveria sat alone on one side. Hunched, one arm crossed over his waist, the other supported on it with the index finger stretching up to the temple on the steel faceplate.

"You have returned," the Lord said. "Allow a guess. Thor?"

"Indeed." Loki's voice was soft and powerful. It instantly conveyed distaste. Speak of it not.

"Most unfortunate," the Lord said and move a rook down three places. "I take it you sent Osborn and the others back?"

"Yes."

The Lord sighed under the faceplate. "There are still other goals. Other options. And Osborn will have remembered none of this."

* * *

**Continued...**


	13. Negative III

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

**Ben Grimm—**

Had been a big proponent of the 'hit first, think later' school of killing robots. It was he who jumped right into the trench of Doombots after reverting over in the Negative Zone prison. Wolverine had come after him.

They had cut down fifteen Doombots in two minutes. The rest were a few meters out and lumbering around them at a slow pace. Really technologically slavish, the whole lot of them.

Wolverine leaned in to Ben and said quietly, "'Fair fight?"

"Naw," Ben said and cracked his rocky hands together. "'Bout five hunnert a' them and two of us. They don't stand a chance."

Wolverine gave a savage smile.

They both ran for the 'bots. And Wolverine started slashing.

Ben had brute strength on his side instead. And boxing training courtesy of the USAF. And some old dust-bin on Third that Matt Murdock had directed him to. Fogwell's or some such. At any rate, he didn't stop.

Left, right. Left, right.

It was too easy. He couldn't even think of a good metaphor. Like winning at one of Johnny's damn video games all the time. Hitting all the targets on a shooting range. Going through all the little flip-down ski gates on a run.

Boring. Almost.

Except for the part where the Doombots were shooting at him.

That, he just turned his back to. The rocky hide did most of the work.

"Great," Ben said and decapitated an errant Doombot He tore its arm off and flipped it around and slung it under one arm like a shotgun. The circuitry was still intact; the tear had been relatively clean, only blowing out a couple of wirings and sparks. He turned around and winced. The Doombot cadre ahead of him was still firing. Standing there perfectly motionless likea bunch of lugs, hands out at 90 degrees to the rest of their bodies, firing away on their damn energy hand things. "More good news," Ben said. And jerked the torn Doombot arm upward.

That made it fire.

So he kept doing it.

In another minute, he had fifty of them down in a big smoking pile next to him.

A few meters away, he heard Wolverine grunting and the sound of metal slicing through metal.

Ben smiled.

This was like a fading dream. The ease of it all.

* * *

**Scott Summers—**

On reverting, had spent about five seconds scanning the area directly inside the gateway. On a wide dais a hundred meters away he ahd spotted them. Namor and Emma, flanked by an army of thirty Atlanteans with vibro-pikes and swords and looking very pissed off. And the Stepford Cuckoos. Emma had taken them.

He had sprinted for them all.

Loki, the God of Mischief had been standing in the middle of the catwalk, the only way to get up there. And had simply stepped aside to let Scott pass.

Just walking up to the two of them was bad enough. Easy enough.

The two of them.

Scott and Emma Namor and Emma yes Scott you've let yourself in once again or has the door been left open you don't know do you of course you don't

He clenched his jaw and looked at Emma.

"Get out of my head."

Emma Frost. In a white skirt that ran the length of her size two waist. Jodphurs underneath with knee-high jackboots laced all the way up. A white corset that covered all the right parts and curved perfectly along her breasts. Perfect blonde hair pulled tight back on her skull. It puled the rest of her skin back too. Made her look eminently and permanently pissed off. The lipstick was chrome and glinted in the light. The eyes said 'fight me, I dare you, darling'. She was quite naturally flawless. And Scott had never gotten quite used to it. Had loved it, to be sure. Every subtle inch of it. But never got used to it.

"Why?" Scott asked.

She was looking down her nose at him. "Because we're dying."

"We should have worked together!" he said and levelled the finger of accusation. "Not gone around with these backdoor shenanigans."

"It was the only way," she said. Namor slid one hand around her waist. "Wanda Maximoff saw to that."

"Goddamnit Emma, stop it," Scott said. "We've had this conversation before. Why are you doing this?"

_Because_. Celeste, the foremost Stepford.

_Because_. Mindee.

_We must test you_. Phoebe. _Miss Frost says._

"Look into my eyes," Emma said in that testing tone of voice. "See for yourself."

"I'm not the psychic."

"And I told you," she said, "That I would never read your mind."

Behind Namor, the Atlantean guards were clutching their vibro-pikes. Ready to strike on orders from their King.

"Do it," Scott said. "You know what you'll see."

"A frightened little boy," Emma said. A slender and perfect eyebrow slid up on her scalp. "Or will it be Jean? Perhaps Xavier handing you more platitudes."

"Don't handle me," he said. "We moved past that a long time ago. Why are you here?"

"You've kept secrets," Emma said. "I have. We all have. Grow up, darling."

"You sold us out," Scott said. "Turned us into some cheap PR stunt for Osborn. Mutants siding with the new world order. What did he promise you?"

"There will be no siding. Osborn promised us a safe haven, but he's as you say out of the picture."

"So what, then? Run off to Latveria with Doom and Namor?"

Namor raised a hand and pointed at Scott.

The Atlanteans charged.

_Scott, do you know why people tolerate me?_

_(No, do tell)_

He blew the arm off one. Two. Three.

Caught another in the chest. Six to go.

Flipped another over his shoulder and jammed a knee into whatever passes for an Atlantean crotch. Following through in a low leg-sweep, he knocked another to its knees.

_Because I don't have blue fur or a pet dragon. My skin doesn't turn to metal, I haven't ripped out anyone's claws. And I don't make excuses for that. We're dying. There is no other choice. Must I repeat it, dear?_

He swung the vibro-pike out of the fifth one's hand, twirled it in a mighty flourish and drove it through its abdomen. It cried out in a hateful and bubbly wail, and then was silent.

_(You hide behind your appearance, Emma. That's the thing about psychics. They don't stick out)_

_And you do? We had that conversation once. Dare I refresh your memory  
_

_(No, that was Cassandra Nova. And you couldn't do it)  
_

The remaining four circled around him. The biggest of them had the typical mad glint in his eye; his mouth hung open and sort of slobbered at one end. Namor had brought the biggest and craziest. Maybe not.

_Scott. You lose. Why do you not see what I am doing here?_

He shot a beam at the big one. It went straight into its chest and the big one just kept smiling. It turned into a painful grimace a second later. Scott amped the intensity. And waited.

The big one fell to the floor after the beam pierced flesh and bone and shredded its heart.

_(Dr Doom isn't a geneticist! He can't reinstate mutant genes!)_

_But he can keep the rest of us safe._

The last three stopped.

Scott paused. Looked back. Namor had gestured for them to cease.

"No," he said and looked at Emma. "Don't you see what I'm doing here?"

_Are you going to stop me?_

_(I'm begging you)_

"Emma!" he cried and threw his hands out in a weak offertory. "I love you."

She hesitated for just a moment, and he knew it because her all too rigid posture slackened by half an inch. Half an inch. The entire world to him.

Then Namor leapt at Scott. Throwing his ornate and gilded trident forward, his mouth stuck open in rage.

Scott fired a blast into Namor's chest. It did nothing.

Then Namor knocked him across the room.

_(I still love you. Everything the same I still love you)_

He landed with a thunderous clatter, and put a crater in the wall-plating, directly where floor and wall met at ninety degrees.

Namor landed a moment later and grabbed Scott by the collar, hauling him up and slapping him across the face.

Like a goddamn kid.

"Foolish man," Namor said. "Your temerity has cost your people more than you know."

"One of the Professor's better lessons."

"Compliance, is that it?"

Namor threw him to the floor and then rushed him, crouching over him and forcing his face into the plating rubble. If it had been water, he would have been gurgling, gasping for air.

Scott managed to free an elbow and caught Namor in the crotch. He was aiming for the ribs, but the crotch did the trick. Namor fell to one knee. Scott took the advantage and got up. His lungs burned but he worked through it.

Punched Namor in the kidney.

It was cheap. The whole fight was cheap, but it worked.

Namor fell again, and was on his back. Scott straddled him and started hitting again. Left, right, left, right, left.

Then he choked him.

Namor made a dry cackling sound.

Scott got in close.

Fired a beam in Namor's face.

At two inches, it was enough to blow the King of Atlantis a foot into the armour-plated floor.

Scott turned it off and shook him.

Namor choked out a monosyllable.

"Huh?"

"This is," Namor choked. "A new. Side."

"Get used to it." And he shook Namor again. Added discomfort. He was Atlantean but he was still half a man. And half a man stills gets half a concussion. "You take Emma from me, you hold my actions against me, you make these deals with Doom and Osborn. You deserve to die."

Scott fired another blast in his face.

Heard Namor grunt. But not scream.

He knew Namor would never scream for anything.

He powered off.

"Now," Scott said. "They're my people. My students, my team-mates. My people. And you stay the hell away from them. You might be the first mutant, but there's no place for you in the X-Men. My rules. There are no others."

"We have." Choke. "Shared." Choke. "This planet, Summers." Choke. "What. Difference...you."

Scott frowned.

"Leave," he said. "If I see you with Emma. If I even hear you're on the surface. I'll kill you."

Scott stood and helped Namor to his feet. And it occurred to Scott that Namor had allowed himself to get beaten. Maybe.

The King of Atlantis rubbed his neck. And said, "Your honour...is refreshing, Summers. I shall commit no acts against Miss Frost. Or your dying species. However. Mutant or not, you are still just a man. And as surely as the sun rises, your hubris will be the end of you."

Namor flew back to the dais.

Emma had not moved.

He landed in front of her and laid both hands on her shoulders. And kissed her. His hands moved up her body until they were on each side of her face. Feeling her. Every subtle inch.

Slowly, he pulled away.

"There is no longer a purpose here. Miss Frost."

_Call me Emma. Please._

_(Our paths crossed once before. May we be as fortunate in the future.)_

He turned away. The wings on his ankles propelled him toward the gateway, carrying him forward in a hunch.

The remaining three Atlanteans followed him.

They strolled right down the middle of the catwalk. And right through the gateway.

The crossroads—the blue-silver event horizon—undulated after them. And then did not move.

* * *

**Reed Richards—**

Had come through the gateway stretching like a maniac. He hadn't gone that full on since D-Day. When he had to stretch from one end of Central Park to the other and back. Scanning for Skrulls with his haphazard invention. It had worked, only, like most things, all too well.

Reed Richards had made the hubristic mistake of thinking there were more Skrulls there than there were.

He wished he had it now.

So he could point it at Victor and know.

_Well_, he thought as he stretched and snaked around Victor, evading his every blast, _this is it._

Doom was no Skrull.

Partially, this was an easy conclusion to make for a few reasons. One, it involved Victor falling somehow prey to weak security, and that was one of those immutable facts of life. Latveria was small and geographically fortuitous. Nothing escaped or went unnoticed. This meant that Victor knew exactly who was coming into, going out of, flying over, living, dying, peeing, eating and fornicating in his little 90 square miles. Victor knew everything. And if a Skrull strolled in the Castle wanting to kill Victor and take his place—and it was entirely possible that some very brave Skrull had—Victor would have decapitated the damn thing without a second glance and taken on the entire armada by himself.

That was Victor.

And so was this.

Victor had fired off one shot at Reed as he came through the gate.

Reed had been stupid enough to allow himself to get shot. The payload was neon green and sizzled with electrochemical discharge, and it slammed right into the circular '4' emblem on his chest.

Reed's legs were already standing in front of Doom, and the rest of him rejoined, reapportioning his normal mass out a moment later.

He put his hands on his waist. And locked his gaze on Doom.

"Alright," Reed said. "That was too easy."

"Indeed," Doom said. And threw the first punch.

It knocked Reed back three steps. He stopped himself and wiped the blood smudge from his lips. Looked at Doom.

"A nanotech payload?"

Doom nodded and said, "It has already negated your powers, Richards. If we are to fight, then I wish it to be on my terms."

"And you're not concerned about the political fallout?"

"No," Doom said and did not move. "Your government has an agreement with me. I shall commit no acts of vengeance on your nation, which, in the wake of Nick Fury's invasion—not to mention those of Tony Stark and even your authoritative action two years ago—would be entirely justified."

"I doubt that."

"Test me," Doom said. His eyes were blood red. "Doom is nothing if not honest."

The Lord of Latveria threw another punch at Richards.

Richards sidestepped it and grabbed Doom's arm at the elbow. He planted one foot inside Doom's leg and swept him over.

Looked at Doom, lying on the floor, and said, "I've been training you see."

Under the cold steel faceplate, Doom scowled. Threw his legs up over himself and kicked Richards in the chest again.

Inertial compensators in his armour carried him through and he turned around as he stood. So he could face Richards.

"Yes," Doom said. Richards was on the floor, dazed for the moment. Doom planted a triumphant boot on his chest, forcing him back down. "How I have waited for this moment."

"You're about to be disappointed."

It was then that Reed looked down. Lying horizontal as he was, the effect made it seem as though he was closing his eyes.

A foot behind Doom, Ben Grimm was creeping up, with Logan behind him.

"Everything I have said has been utter truth, Richards," Doom said. "The Mole-Man attacked Osborn's forces off Monster Island. I tried to stop it."

"And the Lincoln Memorial?"

"Dr Elder has had weapons on that island for decades. A simple enchantment from none other than the God of Mischief was sufficient to keep it from your radar systems."

"Then." Reed faked a cough. "Why bother with all this?"

"We were content to take Osborn for our own and withdraw to the Negative Zone, providing you did not follow us. The skirmish in which your allies have just participated has been entirely defensive."

"Right."

Then Ben punched Doom's head off.

The circuitry in the neck sizzled and popped. The body fell to the floor with a dull thud. The head skittered across the floor.

Reed stood, and looked back at Ben and Wolverine.

"We have to leave," he said and his face was blanched. Harried. "Now."

The disembodied head of the robot Doom landed at the foot of Harvey Rupert Elder. Standing there, uncomprehending, like a dullard. He gazed at the dying red orbs of the Doom replicant's eyes, and then at the Cosmic Control Rod in his other hand. And then up at Richards.

Susan Storm and Spider-Woman and Mockingbird were crawling out of one of the pits. All of them smeared with grease and grime.

They were all looking at the Mole-Man.

Aghast.

And then it made sense to Harvey Elder. Decades of searching, of wanting, of longing. They had come to this.

They were finally paying him heed.

"Finally," he said and smiled a sick grin. What teeth he had left were mangled and yellowed and showed through. His voice was deep and phlegmatic. "You ravage the planet. You invade my lands. You accuse me of murder! You slaughter my babies with reckless abandon, and you get away with it! Now you'll face me, Richards! You and your family will die for what you've done to me!" And Harvey Elder started cackling, as madly as he had in the Philippine Sea a day ago. When his 'babies' had torn the HAMMER carrier to shreds.

Sue whispered in Reed's ear, "How did he get that control rod?"

Reed shook his head and said, "I don't know."

Wolverine walked in front of all of them, snapped his claws out and stared wildly at the Mole Man.

"Come on, Moley! Do it. You wanna shoot someone, shoot me!"

Behind him, Scott Summers powered up his visor. Sue readied a force-field or two. Reed stood. And figured that since the Doom he was fighting had been a robotic duplicate, it probably hadn't fired a power-negating nano-beam at him. He stretched his arm from waist to toe and then back up as quickly. And allowed himself a tiny smile.

The Doombot was as 'full of it', as Johnny would say, as Victor was.

Reed kept smiling when he saw Johnny and Spider-Man lower to the dais behind the Mole-Man.

It went away when Spider-Man shifted, and Reed saw the hunched figure behind him, lurching out of the corridor behind; the corridor that led to a landing bay that had never been used. Meant to travel to Baluur and, if it had to be done, Blastaar. Fortunately, Reed had made use of it, but insisted it be built anyway. Annihilus was off busy blowing up the Skrull Empire when the superhuman civil war. Blastaar had taken over the Negative Zone and, if Victor's reports weren't in question, the Negative Zone prison.

But this wasn't Blastaar and it wasn't Annihilus. Last Reed heard, Richard Rider had taken the Annihilus spawn into the custody of the Nova Corps.

This was different. It was human.

A tall and slim one, a man. In a red and black uniform, where the red striping ran across the clavicles and sternum and down the arms, and down the centre line of his chest and the front of his legs. He had an odd gait to him, sort of hunched forward and slow-moving. The walk of the just-gotten-up. His hair was messy in all places, his skin pale. And he looked dazed in a sad sort of way.

No one was saying a thing.

Except for Wolverine, who only eked out a minor, "Holy shit."

The Mole Man frowned. "What?!" He was irate. And had gotten there so easily. Too easily. He spun around and then saw what everyone else did. Only, the Mole Man wasn't surprised so much by who it was. Only by the fact that this person, this Avenger, stepped forward.

Broke both of Harvey Elder's hands.

And took the Cosmic Control Rod for himself.

With a disgusted look, Scott Lang threw it to the armor-plated floor, and looked at the Mole Man. "Boo," he said.

The Mole Man slunk away.

Reed stretched an arm out and bound him up in it. As usual, the Mole Man had given up too easily.

Ben Grimm walked forward.

"Scott," he said. "You died."

Lang touched a hand to his forehead. His voice was soft. Distant. Confused. "I...know." Ben looked back at the group. Then back at Lang.

Lang's eyes were bloodshot and they roved, manic, in their sockets and his breathing quickened.

"Where is Clint?"

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	14. Negative Reality

**Author's Note**: By now, you're likely tired of seeing me drone on about the metaconstructions going on here. Side note: the last line of this story is probably as much a reflection of Blastaar as it is with the quite leisurely pace I've taken with this story. If all this cosmic nuttery is getting to you, rest assured we'll be back to Osborn and company next chapter. Anyway. One of our side-car plots comes to the fore here in a big ugly way, concerning Norman Osborn's therapizing-away of the Void, or so he thinks, and Robert Reynolds' response to that. All the bad cosmic juju that's been brewing in Bob for months under Osborn's stifling denials is coming to a head. And it ends badly for all of us. Couple of shout-out notes: a lot of The Void's apotheosis comes from Stephen King's _It_ (which I didn't finish reading, it has to be said, until the age of 23 and for reasons that have mostly to do with Tim Curry). Other parts come thematically from Grant Morrison's _Final Crisis: Superman Beyond_, which is just spacey and wacky and enthralling enough to warrant purchase. The Void makes reference to events that transpired in the 2006 miniseries Sentry: Reborn, by Paul Jenkins and the great John Romita Jr. Stylistically, I've tried something new here with the Void: partnering dehumanization with apotheosis, as well as what I hope is a reasonable upgrade to 'Cosmic Horror'. We're also playing with tense shifts on purpose. The idea is that time and space and linear order are on the fritz when the Void hits the Negative Zone. So it's probably more heedless lifting from the Morrison tray. Lifting which has nonetheless presented me with an interesting challenge in terms of narrative. It's not quite the street-level/non-powers types that one might see in a Power Man comic or for instance my Rage of Party fic. It's bigger. And scarier to conceive and get down. Muchly so. I leave the efficacy of all this up to you, Readers. Always you.

* * *

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

**Reed Richards.**

"Scott," he said and then paused. His lips were parted an inch and his eyes bobbed in their sockets. The great Reed Richards. Confounded. "Scott," he said again. "You died."

"I know," Scott Lang says again and his voice was soft and creaking. Barely getting out of his throat. He looked around. "Where am I?"

"This is the Negative Zone," Reed said. He walked up the steps on the dais and laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. Reed's hair was tousled, messy. It ran in countervening lines and pattersn over his scalp; the sign of his scuffle with the robot Doom. And his eyes were drawn. Deeper, somehow. Sad. "How did you get here?"

"I don't know," Scott said, as creaking as before. "There was."

_Death._

_That's what there was, Scottie. Jack of Hearts walking onto the Mansion's front lawn and giving you a head's up and then blowing you both sky-high. Did you know that Janet raced out there first? That she was the first one to see your bony little claws sticking out of the muck and the ashes?_

(No that's not how it happened)

_Oh yes it is, Scottie. You died and no one missed you!_

(Stop it stop who are you stop it no)

_You died! The blast from Jack of Hearts tore through you like a hurricane, Scottie. Blew you away, vaporized your flesh instantly. And you didn't even feel it. Maybe a momentary heat, the kind you'd feel if you held your hand over a piping campfire. Irritating and easily overcome._

_Not this one._

_You died Scottie, and no one missed you. You didn't get a funeral, you didn't get any medals, you didn't get Arlington! You're a criminal and everyone knows it and that's why they're all gawking at you know, Scottie! _

(Stop please stop I beg you)

_Your daughter took up your life and they threw a statue of you out front of the Mansion, sure, but come on. Even so, no one gets into the grounds these days without a death wish or a good excuse. It's a mausoleum and it's all to you._

_You see Clint Barton anywhere out there?_

Scott was breathing faster now. _Huff-huff_. He wiped a thin and greasy layer of sweat from his forehead and looked out. Across the steel arena, down the catwalk. The octagonal gateway with its glowing, undulating blue-silver event horizon caught his attention and he stared at it longingly for a minute.

As if his prayers were answered, the gulf bubbled outward as a body passed through. He recognized the face anywhere. The messy blonde hair, the perpetual frown that said 'I can do this better than you and watch me'. The strong chin and the deep eyes. The _siempre_ pissed off, Scott thought.

It was Clint alright. But. In a black ninja suit or some damn thing, with gold piping and a black-green sash around the waistband. He looked from side to side. There were smoking hulks of dead robots in the pits on either side of the catwalk, and Clint did a whole Darth Vader thing as he walked forward.

He hadn't noticed them yet. Strolled through the gateway like those saloon floppy-doors.

Scott's voice was still ethereal when he said, "Clint?" and cocked his head to one side.

Barton looked in his direction on reflex. The eyes grew wide and the head sort of lolled back. As ethereal, he said, "Scu...Scott? Is that you?"

Scott's eyes went around again. He inspected his hands, front and back.

"I. I think so."

Then Barton was jogging forward, then at Reed Richards' side. And saying, "How? Who did this to you, Scott?"

Scott frowned. "Did?" he asked. "You mean. Brought me back to life?"

"Yes."

_Idiot Barton! This was a favour bestowed on you, Scottie Lang! By a benevolent master who knows who you better than you know yourself and loves you better too!_

_You died, Scottie, and no one missed you! And here to prove the point is Clint Barton, one of your friends, acting like coming back from the apparent dead is a bad thing! Hit him!_

Scott stuck a finger in his collar and pulled it out and did it in three successions. He was getting hot. Sweat was layering on his forehead and on his upper lip. He could feel it when he exhaled. The breathing was quicker. He was about to hyperventilate.

"Scott," Clint said again. "Come on. Stay with me. What happened?"

Reed pulled off the circular '4' logo on his chest and was now duelling with the computer interface on the obverse side. Doing some calculation. Clint glanced at him and back at Scott.

"I don't know." Scott leaned in on Clint, putting his hands on Clint's shoulders for physical support. His head drooped, looking at the armour-plated floor. He looked back up, locking on Clint's eyes, and spoke in a quiet little screech. Like his vocal cords had been ripped out but that wasn't stopping him. He was on a knife's edge.

"I don't know!" Scott said. And his voice walked in and out of whispering and cracking. Tears were streaming down his face. "There was, there was the Mansion and the alarm went off, and-and-and I went out there and it was Jack and oh God he looked like a zombie! I don't remember what I told him, but he just looked at me and said 'sorry' and. And."

Clint waited a second. When Scott bowed his head again, Clint did too. Staying with him.

"Scott," Clint said. "Come on."

"There's nothing after that," Scott said. "Nothing. One day I'm looking out at Jack and then there's nothing. Then I wake up and I'm freezing my ass off, I guess I was naked, and there are two guys standing over me."

Reed's head piqued up. He looked over at Scott, his movements mechanical. Inquisitive.

"What two guys?" Reed asked. His finger hovered over the keypad on the disc-computer; stopped in time.

"I don't know," Scott said. "Couldn't make them out too well. Big guy in a green cape. Smaller guy, I'd say about your size, Reed. Looked angry. Wearing like a black jacket. Think he was floating or something. Pointy ears."

Reed rolled his eyes and sighed. Said, "Oh no."

"What?"

Reed's eyes widened and his eyebrows went up. The head reclined a bit to one side and he looked puzzled. Maybe. Considering some alternative explanation.

"Reed," Sue called to him. "You think..."

"Considering the week we've had, darling? This would be no stranger than what's already happened."

"What, Reed?" Scott was getting agitated. His eyes were bloodshot but at least he seemed to stop rocking back and forth. "What don't I know?"

"You died," Reed said judiciously, "I hate to say it, Scott, but there it is. Jack of Hearts exploded and he took you with him. Now, if you're right about what you saw..."

"What, Reed?"

"I think your return might be the handiwork of Victor."

Scott froze for a moment, caught on the verge of a response. "Victor," he said at last. "Doctor Doom?"

Reed nodded. "Yeah. Did they speak to you?"

"I dunno. Said he needed me for something. Then I guess I must have passed out or something. I woke up in here. Maybe ten minutes ago? I was out on the landing platform, I think. Heard the explosions and boom, here I am."

Scott's mouth twisted into a mild little snarl. Dissatisfied.

He sat on the dais. Ran both hands through his hair and shuddered a bit. Suppressed a weep. His lips were quivering.

"Doctor Doom?" Scott asked and then said it again. "_The_ Doctor Doom?"

Reed nodded. His lips were pursed in a sad way. He looked old, Scott thought. Ever so much more than forty. "Yes," Reed said. "We'd have to get you back home and run some tests, but I'm willing to bet on it. He visited my lab yesterday, so I know he's been in the country." Pause. Reed looked at Scott with an uncertain, questioning sort of look. He didn't know what to make of this. _What purpose does Victor serve by bringing back a dead Avenger? He_ spoke: "You came back to us because Victor wanted something from you. What, I have no idea. But I promise you I'll find out. I'll help bring you back, Scott."

"God," he said. "God knows I appreciate that, Reed, but what's the point?" Scott pressed his hands against his chest, recusant. Quieter: "what would Dr Doom want with me?"

Clint sat next to him and patted him on the back.

"Look, Scott. I died too. About twenty minutes after you. Stark told me I took a header into a Kree warship. And here I am."

"How?" Scott angled his head against his hand, supported on his knee. Wiped the tears away with the other hand.

"Wanda," Clint said. "Least that's what I've pieced together. Apparently she went off the reservation, and that's being nice about it. Really did a number on us."

Scott let out a mono-chortle. A single shot of compressed air through his nose. It was close to amused as he was going to get. Then his head dipped forward and he ran one hand through his hair. "Wanda, huh?"

"Yep." Clint slapped a hand on Scott's back. And stood. "Lot's changed since you been gone. Come on, buddy. Let's go home. We'll sort this all out." Pause. "And then go get some donuts. Okay?"

Scott waited a moment before standing. Once he did—"yeah, okay"—they were up.

Reed put the '4' logo-computer back on his uniform. And stretched in front of Clint and Scott to join Sue.

Then they all noticed it.

Him.

Standing just inside the heaving event horizon of the Negative Zone gateway, bathed in its deep cerulean glow. His hair was long and hung in motionless strands; covered the sharp and flawless face with its decidedly nonexistent stubble, its straight jawline and high cheekbones. The eyes were deep and blue; ordinarily they stood out by his simple willpower. Not now. Not here. His head was bowed like Scott Lang's had been a moment before. The shoulders were broad and high, perhaps a little tense. The suit was golden, though it lacked the characteristic aura. He was standing more or less between light and shadow; caught in the twilight of the distant stars and the shade from the undulating gateway. The effect amplified his suit. Made him seem darker, but also highlighted every muscle on his body. The curving 'S' logo on the centre of his belt, the focal point of the whole thing, wasn't glowing. For once. But in the moonlight streaking in through the great glass windows behind the dais, they all could still see him.

Robert Reynolds. The Sentry.

Ares, the God of War, stepped forward. He was streaked with grease and Moloid blood—for in the process of vanquishing Loki's Asgardian retinue and the one called Balder, all of whom promptly disappeared when the God of Mischief did minutes ago, Ares had jumped in headfirst. The armour he wore was slashed across the chest and leg grieves; Dr Elder's group of Moloids had been savage, but fortunately for Ares, they followed the ever-reliable one-hit-death rule. Pawns.

He raised a salutary hand. "Ho, Robert! The battle is won!"

Sentry's eyes came up from the floor, looking at Ares while the rest of the head was still bowed. It was a probing, pathological glower.

Before he had become the Sentry—taken the serum from the Professor's lab and spirited it away to the fairgrounds to guzzle it down and see what happened—Robert Reynolds was a scrawny little freshman with wicker sticks for arms and a dirty blonde mop for hair. He was perpetually dirty, but still somehow wholesome. After the serum, he'd cleaned up. The story was more complex than that, but Bob Reynolds had only ever been interested in the broad strokes.

Particulars were dangerous.

Lest another.

Episode.

Before the serum, he'd been an unkempt urchin. And since he'd been an English major, he'd even indulged the Dickensian metaphor. Fancying himself Oliver Twist and so on. But he was never.

Twisted.

After the serum he'd gotten better. Stopped with the stuff. Started showering, for one. Started caring. Lifting weights, though that didn't last beyond a week because—and he didn't figure this out until weeks later—the serum was doing that for him.

But he was never twisted.

Not until the Void first showed up and hospitalized half of the Bronx.

Now. The twisted edge was there, in his voice. Low and snotty and annoying and unsettling. It sounded like rolling thunder. A bowling ball on its way to the pins. Tyres on a highway rumble strip.

Here. Now.

The Void was coming. Already here. Come and gone. Its victory assured in past and future, with only present remaining. Reasserting itself in its place of highest concentration.

Standing there, feeling locked in time with all the heroes' eyes fixed on him.

Reed Richards clutched one hand on his wife's shoulder and said, in a breathless whisper, "Oh no."

A single sad tear slid down Robert Reynolds' face.

_You had to come back here, didn't you, Sentry._

(Please don't do this)

_Too late Sentry. You've forced my hand._

"Run," he managed to say in a choked whisper. "All of you. Please."

His eyes went black.

And his heart sank.

When he spoke, there was nothing of Bob Reynolds in there.

The eyes were black. Not just the pupils. All of it.

Black as the ace of spades.

The room got very cold.

Emma Frost drew her cloak tight around her. At her side, Scott Summers ran his hand up and down one of her arms.

Three meters away, Johnny Storm rubbed his arms. Shivering. Johnny Storm. Of all the people.

"I told you," it said in the low, growling voice, "I would come back, and when I did, I'd kill everyone."

Wolverine's shoulders slumped. "Oh shit."

Cyclops powered his visor again.

Reed pivoted in place. "Ben! Get Scott out of here!"

Reed turned back.

The Sentry was no longer there.

The tall and proud man in the gold and blue suit had been replaced. Taken over maybe.

By the Void.

Or a vague cloud resembling it.

Reed Richards knew the type.

Horrible, amorphous and everywhere.

It grew in size and took the shape of a Cyclopean horror, anthropoid and distorted in shape; the hunchback covering the Zone gateway and not allowing the brilliant silver-blue event horizon's light to pass beyond. Somewhere in the impenetrable blackness, there was Bob Reynolds. The Sentry.

Simian lumbering arms in front, with razor fangs curving out and around in elegant protrusions from a mouth set in a narrow and blood-filled delta shape. The eyes were red too. Burning. Bloodshot. If Bob Reynolds was still in there, he must have felt the pain.

The arms rose. Curving digits with upturned spikes on each knuckle turned into a grabbing motion. Slow.

Like it was taking its sweet ass time reaching into all of them. Like it wanted them to know it was coming.

In the slow-motion that followed, Johnny Storm said, "I thought the Void was some guy in a purple trenchcoat?"

"It's whatever it wants to be," Reed said.

Strips of ash-black tendrils shot out form the palm in spasmodic and uniform motion. One for each of them.

And a voice reaching, too.

The tendrils slammed into the sternum of all of them and came out on the other side like a fish-hook. They all fell to their knees.

And felt it.

_I have poisoned your minds for weeks. I have intruded your dreams and coerced your actions._

_Scott Lang. Henry Pym. The weakest of you._

_Your villains. Your Doctors of Doom and Gods of Mischief are as the buzzing of flies to me. As are you._

_You have stifled Reynolds for too long. No longer. You may thank the one you call Norman Osborn for Reynolds' newfound equanimity. For in convincing him that I was nonexistent._

_I became free._

Johnny Storm's eyes shut as the tendril slammed into his chest. He was freezing now. Hypothermic. It was the doing of the Void, and Johnny was irritated that he couldn't stop it. Couldn't flame on. Couldn't do anything except stand there and take it.

Johnny Storm was never one for taking it.

It had always been this way.

Never stand down, never give up, never apologise.

It's not the way we do business.

The Void enjoyed Johnny's piss and vinegar way of looking at the world and devoted focus to him.

Of course he kept it on the others, too.

Reed Richards' mind is fairly standard, if artistically intriguing. Laid out like an iMac desktop.

The Void laughs.

And the clutter is indiscriminate. The icons litter the desktop background—an amalgamated photoshop affair of Franklin, Valeria, Johnny and Be.. Files on someone called Alyssa Moy. Sharon Ventura. Something called Abraxas. His children, Valeria and Franklin. Frankie Raye. Three terabytes of data on the World-Eater Galactus.

Six terabytes on Victor von Doom.

The Void consumes them all in record time.

Within Richards' hard drive of a conscious mind, the Void does something oddly playful.

He opens an IM window.

_Void: Come out Richards._

_RR: You don't scare me._

_Void: The connection is too great to be compromised. I can feel your mental firewalls attacking me. Give up._

_RR: And then what? You'll invade my universe with this mind and this body working for you. Old school possession. Am I right?_

_Void: Something like that._

_RR: No deal._

_Void: ?_

_RR: Because it's not an original idea. Victor's third attempt on my life was mind transference. What chance did you stand?_

And then,

_/username RR has signed off._

_/connection terminated._

It's here that The Void feels something remarkable. Interesting. That he even used the word 'interesting' is more bad news.

Richards' severing of the connection, done under his pure pliant willpower. It was jarring. Most uncomfortable.

But not surprising. Richards was always that strong. That stupid. That selfish.

It readjusts and moved on.

Johnny Storm's mind proved more open to the experience.

His was organized less mechanically. Surprising, perhaps, given his aptitude with the average automobile, but not insurmountable.

Johnny Storm's mind is a 46 Ford. Jet black with a white canvas top folded down so he can stare up at the sky with hope.

_You're the child, Jonathan! Victor von Doom was right! You don't belong here among the World's Greatest Heroes! First Family of Superheroes? Indeed. More like a group of squabbling, emotionally-retarded robots stuck in the same behavioural loop. And for what? A few guttersnipes worthy of a cockeyed glance and a sixpence in their hat on the street. You're so far above your station, Jonathan, and yet so far below it. If I were you...I'd jump off a cliff._

Then The Void reaches into Noh Varr's mind.

The Kree warrior has conceptualized his conscious mind as the ballooning, uneven microflesh of the Supreme Intelligence. Bound to his distant masters even in this universe. Even in his subconscious, this soldier serves. There was a time, the Void supposed for Noh Varr, that he served the Kree and did not question. Then he was lost and now he is here and he no longer takes orders from them. Yet still he yearns. Ever seeking approval from a being he doesn't know is dead.

_You mean nothing, Noh Varr! Why have your people not come for you? Why does your true home elude you? Find a dimensional gateway and go through it. Leave now and never come back. Continue your search for moral compromise and conquest elsewhere! Can't you see these humans do not take kindly to it?_

And in Ares, the God of War.

_Your son will overthrow you and you know it! Like Zeus and his father and his father before him. The cycle continues and always shall! Death will come quickly to you, Son of Zeus!_

And in Scott Summers.

_There's that frightened boy again. The one Ms. Frost unlocked all those months ago, taking your powers along with it. What's he staring at, with those eyes and that dying redhead with her hands around his waist? Death, Scott. Betrayal, Scott. Jean Grey, Scott. Put those beams of your against a mirror. Watch them reflect back, blow your head off. Then you'll be with Jean forever, won't you?_

And in Scott Lang.

_You died and no one missed you! Your daughter took up your mantle, for whatever that's worth, and the world's greatest supervillain brought you back from the dead for a reason he himself has probably forgotten. You would do well to plunge off a cliff, Scottie!_

And in Clint Barton.

_The love of your life is back but it shant last and you know that. You almost saw the end in the Savage Land, and you almost put one of those slugs into your head. The thought of living in a world of duplicitous goddamn Skrulls? Too much for you, Clinty? Take the short way out. The short, reeking of cordite and burned hair, brains all over the wall, shitting your pants as your head explodes way out._

_And save us all the trouble of having to look at your fucking face._

The Void repeats the process in every one of them. And all of them are entranced and indentured, on their knees in a timeless and inescapable Unlife before the ashen black monstrosity.

The dark side of Robert Reynolds.

But now The Void is so much more.

It is in the Negative Zone. Its hour come round at last.

The reachings into their souls achieved little. They proved remarkably pliant. So easily bent to Negative will. Where was the challenge? The so-called heroism?

At the far end of the steel arena, the walls start to buckle.

Negative reality is closing in on itself.

The tall glass windows separating Prison Alpha's gaping and sleek interior shatter, jigsawed into a million pieces of razor snow falling down on the heroes. Slicing gashes in Wolverine's chest, soaked with Moloid blood and Doombot grease in hideous fractals.

Negative Reality becomes fractal in the Void's ascended perception.

It was always this way.

The Void was always better than Reynolds. The Negative Zone merely intensified the process. Allowed it to see more. Further. Deeper. Broader.

Directions lose their purpose.

It feels the moon of Baluur, the planet whence comes the new Zone Lord Blastaar, lurch away from its axis.

The Void has done this itself.

Has reached into the moon's icy core and forced an inversion of Negative physics.

The core has already exploded. And now it's collapsing in on itself.

Scale.

Space.

Time.

All run together and yet achieve profound difference. And profound pointlessness.

The infini-tendrils sapping strength and emotional fuel from the beasts before it are more than satisfactory.

Emma Frosts' infidelity. The hive-mind, the collected prowess and simultaneous weakness of the Stepford Cuckoos. Scott Summer's stifling self-control. Reed Richards' oddly-placed hubris. Johnny Storm's determination. And that of Benjamin Grimm. The savagery of Wolverine—whose processes are more banal and more enticing and more dangerous than any death-trap.

It feels them all.

And allows one of Reynolds' emotional values into the equation. Delight.

A thousand miles below Prison Alpha's foundations, the fissures in the moon's geology are becoming more distinct.

The Void will survive the inferno. As it always has. So will Reynolds.

The heroes will not. They will die and not even know it. They will fall into the inferno, boiling alive in their own transgressions and human sins, stuck in the perpetuity of their failures.

Susan Storm will always be in the adulterous throws of Namor's undersea kingdom.

So will Emma Frost.

Scott Summers will always fall out of that parachute.

Scott Lang will always get blown away and devalued by men he thought team-mates.

Reed Richards will always make room for his science over his life, and he'll be the only one that won't care.

Johnny Storm will always love Lyja and lose Lyja. Always grow up and yet not.

Time has now become a futile enterprise.

Through the shattered glass windows and the buckling armour-plating on the walls—all of it pouring into The Void like matter into an abysmal black hole—the stars move.

Their distant lights coalesce into clusters of brilliance.

Science says no.

The Void says yes.

The threat has become an issue now.

In the next two minutes, Negative Reality will shudder and break under the strain. Unable to cope with the Void's onslaught.

It has now grown dangerously. The Cyclopean form has increased its size, has exploded out of Prison Alpha's confines, sending armour-plated flotsam into Negative Space. Further below, the moon is buckling. Deep in the astro-intestinal wrenchings of destruction.

It loosens the monstrous form it has taken, becoming a swirling black maelstrom. A vortex with death at the centre and unlife in the boundary.

Pulling Prison Alpha into its own singularity.

And then something else enters The Void's mammoth mouth gapes. Bloodshot eyes widen even more and blister at exposure. A hundred meters below, it indulges another Reynolds response.

Rage.

It sees Reynolds step out from the swirling mass of black. His cape is fluttering around him, a furious blue band in the dark.

The bloodshot eyes go wide again and pop as the bile beneath them drips out.

It lets out an inhuman scream. Anguish. Pain.

More rage.

Reynolds simply looks up at him, his blinde locks whipping across his face in the maelstrom the Void has made.

_You haven't beaten me._

(I didn't have to you did it for me you know that right?)

The Void materializes an inhuman face, the same shape of Sentry's, with the same curves and jawline and nose. The same frailties, staring at him with apologetic and stern authority. Eyes black as aces, skin the colour of burned ash, enveloped in a horrible black penumbra.

Scowling. Pissed.

At The Void.

Sentry's eyes are white. Luminous.

The Void shrinks away from them, covering his own weeping red eyes with a gaunt claw.

_Blow wind, Sentry._

The walls shatter. Collapse in on themselves.

Negative Reality is ending.

Sentry looks at the heroes. Free of their tendrils and staring at him with a collectivised dazzle in every eye.

_Come wrack._

"Go!" he yells and checks a thumb over his shoulder at the gateway.

Richards stretches.

He gathers the comatose Mole-Man in one arm band—because all Harvey Elder is good for is passing out when the going gets good—and Scott Lang in another.

Sue Storm and Johnny are the first to pass through the undulating gateway. Then Ben Grimm.

Wolverine. Scott Summers and Emma Frost, hand in hand, with the Stepford Cuckoos running behind them. Which was something in itself. Being of Frost in origin, Stepfords never ran anywhere.

Then Mockingbird and Spider-Woman, who gave Sentry a little mock-salute.

Johnny Storm, then. With an unconscious Spider-Man in his arms.

Richards reaches the gateway and slings his payloads—Lang and Elder—through.

In the distance, the wall collapses. The massive support columns falling on the dais. Armour-plated timbers in a treeless forest.

The ground buckles.

The octagonal gateway snaps and pops. Its weight compromised by The Void's consumption of Negative Reality.

Richards and Sentry.

Bob Reynolds.

They lock eyes for a moment.

Right before Sentry tells him, "Go, Reed," and dives into the Void again. A growing blackness against the dying starfield in the distance.

Then Reed is gone.

The gateway collapses a moment later. The power source cut out, the undulating blue-sliver event horizon flickering as a light and then dying.

Amid the torrent and the maelstrom, created by The Void and pulling the rest of Prison Alpha into an abysmal black hole, there stands the Sentry.

He's put up the aura again, glowing brilliantly for a foot in every direction. Staring out at the maelstrom with distance. Dissatisfaction.

(Now I am disappointed, Void)

_This is what you wanted!_

(No. I wanted to save them and I did. I wanted to preserve life)

_Life was taken from you!_

(By my own foolish actions. It was my doing. It's taken twenty years to figure this out.)

_Platitudes! Don't lie to me, Sentry!_

The maelstrom closed on the Sentry, wrapping him up in ebony strands of infinity.

Sentry lowered the aura. Gave himself over to the darkness.

(I used to think there had to be another way, Void. I was wrong)

_Were you now?_

(Yes. There's only one way, Void. One way to keep your noxious fumes from polluting my world.)

_I won't kill you Sentry, I wouldn't want to. But I can touch you. You know my powers are vast. I can't make you eternal but I can give you three hundred years to live. Five hundred. I can make you a god, Sentry._

(Too late. You see, Void. I already am. And now I'm going to drag both of us into hell)

The formless rage around him screams and Robert Reynolds feels it in his bones.

(It was your idea, Void)

_I am eternal, Sentry! I am the EATER of Worlds! And of SOULS! I am every nightmare you've ever had! Every moment of self-loathing, every unfulfilled desire. Every petty jealousy and every hatred! You can't get rid of those things, Sentry! No more than you can get rid of your problems!_

_(You said it yourself. I wouldn't want to)_

Sentry's aura disappears and he fades into the maelstrom.

Out in the distance, The Void cyclone reforms itself into gargantuan claws. The same type as before, the kind that shot infini-tendrils into the hearts and minds of the heroes. But bigger now.

Planetary in size, and clenching the moon of Baluur in between.

Twenty thousand miles below, on the surface of Baluur, on an oxidized rocky promontory stands Blastaar. His simian face is doing something close to a frown.

As close to sad as he's going to get, watching all this happen.

Watching mammoth black claws crush the moon. Consuming as they go. Pulling all the armour-plating and whatever warm bodies are in there into a final black death.

Into the ashen eternity of The Void.

Then watching them readjust to surround the whole planet. Each claw pushes together, meeting the obliterating halves in mutual destruction.

The moon of Baluur explodes a moment later. The hands dissipate.

A magnificent cosmic paroxysm sends out flotsam and shockwaves in every direction.

It will cause a meteoric holocaust on Baluur. Estimation, at least as far as the once and future king of the Negative Zone can tell: twelve minutes.

The Lord of the Negative Zone feels a hot sizzle in his hand. The Cosmic Control Rod has reappeared, drawn back to its master by the invisible laws of cosmic ownership.

Too late to do anything about.

It was always too late to do something about.

Victor had explained as much to him.

Certainly he _could_ do something about it. If he wished. Stop the shockwave, for one, and so spare Baluur a fiery death.

But for Blastaar, it is a matter of choice, over ability or power. The will to act.

He doesn't have it.

The skies take on a red hue. The fire is coming.

Blastaar has never had it. Perhaps Annihilus did, but that story was told. Perhaps it will never be told again.

Certainly not for Blastaar.

He closes his eyes.

And waits for the end.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	15. The Frivolity of Hope

**Author's Note**: According to the _Marvel Most Wanted Handbook 2005_, Monster Island is apparently located in the Bermuda Triangle. This was news to me, and should have been mentioned way back in Chapter 4. I stand by my placement of Monster Isle in the Philippine Sea, however. It connotates a certain connection to Godzilla, I feel. Feel free to take issue. At any rate, Dr Doom's line at the end is shamelessly pilfered from the Disney adaptation of _Sleeping Beauty_, while Spider-Man and the Human Torch echo Han and Luke in _Return of the Jedi_. Elsewhere, I decided to make Reed Richards smoke his long-suffering and long-missing pipe, for no other reason than it seemed like a natural thing to do while locked in thought. The original notes called for Victoria Hand, Osborn's aide-de-camp, to be Loki in disguise yet again, but I eventually discarded that idea. I instead opted to resolve his storyline in a way I felt hadn't been done before, and which spoke to all those Bowen statues of him fighting Thor. The only person who was really capable of consistently seeing through Loki's 'crap' was Thor. It thus made sense to have Loki talked out of his favourable position by the one person he loathes and yet lives in the shadow of: the dreaded bigger brother. Now, then, behold the pompous Author Tract, in light of this, the Final Chapter...

To the extent a 'theme' exists in this story, it was at least initially about powers. Super or otherwise, as the title said. As it went on, however, I found myself drifting into the concept of responsibility and the claiming thereof in one's actions. I think you'll find a certain degree of discretion concomitant with honesty here, in heroes and villains. But the most interesting thing for me became the interplay between the heroes and the government, and how the heroes attempted to live down and/or escape their poor decisions and ghostly pasts. The tele-screen conversations are some of my favourite pieces I've ever done, because they illustrate the tug of war between reality and fantasy in the Marvel Universe in what I hope is a fairly seamless manner. There're no Senate Subcommittees here, no United Nations. But I found it curious and engaging to put Osborn, Thunderbolt Ross, Secretary Gates (Robert, who actually is the real-life SecDef, in case there was mystery about this), the President (vaguely assumed to be Barack Obama) and Reed Richards in the same milieu and watch the results. It might sound like lazy writing, but it worked out better than I'd expected. The thematic result of this political tele-posturing was an interesting look at our heroes and their world through the lens of an oddly-reasonable United States government. If I hadn't mentioned it before, the placement of Thunderbolt Ross as head of NORAD was an idea of my own doing. I felt it served things better to have a familiar face there: one who could hold his own in the tele-conferences and provide a dissenting opinion on the superhuman community in a way that Loki or Dr Doom couldn't.

I mentioned in an earlier note that Loki had really become the villain of the piece by, say, Chapter 5 or so. As time went on it became a distinct and perverse pleasure being able to get into 'God of Mischief' mode. It was a similar pleasure working with the character of Scott Lang. I think I'd like to explore Scott more closely in the future; could be an indirect sequel to this. And sort of in the manner that my 'In Through the Out Door' AU-fic dealt with Robert Reynolds leaving the world, I think I'd like to write Scott as someone coming back to the world, with all the emotional juju that carries. I think there's a "there" there, in that starry and sad 'oh shit' look in his eyes, right before Jack blew him away in _Avengers_ #500. Something I think is worth exploring. As I hope there's been something in this story worth exploring for you, Dear Readers. What began as a mere one-shot inspired by _Dark Avengers_ #5 has instead turned into a big sweeping blob which the process of creating has been a joy. I put that on you, Readers. Always you. Thanks for being great company.

* * *

**Avengers Tower.**

**Norman Osborn.**

He materialized at the head of the Viking long table in the kitchen, on the far side of the kitchen island.

Or maybe 'reappeared' was a better word for it. What stuck out most was that his eyes opened and he felt as if he was seeing it all for the first time. He couldn't remember being here a moment ago. Or how he'd gotten up here. Or getting up and taking a piss this morning.

Nothing.

The wall to his right was brick from ceiling to hardwood floor. A composite of the Avengers hung in the centre—Captain America, Stark in another golden goose armour, Thor, The Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver, The Vision and Hawkeye. He glanced at it with a focused look, his eyes squinting and his brow smooth. Then to his left. The kitchen island had four stools running along the outside. Bullseye was sitting on the farthest one, dressed in civvies and hunched over a bowl of cereal and staring at Count Chocula's face on the box in front of him.

Norman looked down. His hands were flat on the table; the veins stood out underneath the skin and curled around beneath, among the flesh and bones. He looked back up.

How did he get here?

No.

The last thing.

Was.

The Mole Man and his people. His vampiric little shits. Swarming Osborn. Ripping the armour from him, stabbing their little infested claws into his chest and his legs and pulling him down.

Yes.

The last thing he remembered was falling into a pile of them. Gathered around the foot of the Carrier like army ants making a colony out of and on top of themselves.

Osborn swore they had been smiling.

And now he was here.

He frowned again.

What the hell was going on?

"Norman."

He looked up.

Victoria Hand and Moonstone were at the foot of the table, standing in more or less identical poses.

"Are you alright?" Hand asked.

He glanced around again. "Yes," he lied. He straightened in his chair and clasped his hands together. Look the part, Norman. And put on the great white businessman's face. "What's the situation?"

Hand chucked a thumb to Moonstone at her side. "Karla here dragged you from the water after Elder's abominations ripped the Carrier to pieces."

"And how did you survive?" he said.

Hand bowed her head. Her hair fell forward to cover he face in thick dark strands. Osborn noticed a smile. "I know how to swim," she said.

"You're lucky to be alive, Norman," Moonstone said. "We figured a ninety-four percent casualty rate. The three of us survived. Bullseye, Gargan and Daken too."

"And the agents?"

"We picked up four."

God.

He leaned forward and pressed his hand against his temple. "Alright," he said after a moment. "Alright. I need a sitrep with the Secretary of Defense. And the President."

"Already done," Hand said. "I took the liberty of engineering a live video feed code for this thing." She pulled her iPhone out and slid it across the table to Osborn.

He caught it and pressed the centre button. The screen came to life with the standard White Screen of nothing.

Then the face of Defense Secretary Gates replaced it.

Norman recoiled a bit.

"Secretary Gates," he said and felt a lump in his throat. "What a surprise."

"Likewise," Gates said. "Victoria tells me you're in good hands. Not too injured I hope."

He patted himself across the chest as a reflexive custom. "No, sir."

"Good, good," Gates said. "Well, uh, by now you'll have received Reed Richards' report on the Carrier's destruction?"

Osborn looked up. Hand was sliding a manila folder down the table with a red block-stamp on the front that read 'Monster Isle'.

"Yes," he said and looked back at Gates tiny face on the screen. "I'll have a supplement to you by this evening."

"Oh don't bother."

Osborn froze at that. He stared at the screen for a long moment.

_Well_, he thought, this is it. _They're finally shitcanning you. Who do they think the are to think they can touch you. You're Norman fucking Osborn! You run HAMMER!_

_(Used to)_

"Sir?" Osborn's head cocked to one side. "Are you—"

"I'm not firing you, Norman," Gates said and a rounded smile came across his jowls. "That's the President's prerogative. I've spoken to him and he's not going to fire you, so don't worry about that."

"Sir?"

"We took care of it. In your absence, we put Reed Richards in control of what was left. He handed it back, oh, about five minutes ago. HAMMER's yours again."

"If this is about a failure to adequately deal with the Mole-Man situation, sir"—and there was no doubt in Osborn's mind that this was exactly about that—

"It's not." Gates put more force into his voice. "Norman," he said and sounded tired. "It's not about any of that. We know the HAMMER Carrier was destroyed and we also know that it wasn't your fault. There was no way to anticipate what was going to happen on Monster Island. You did the best you could, and now we're in the rebuilding process."

Platitudes. Added geniality layered on top of itself make Norman feel better about himself and just what the fuck had happened in the past forty-eight hours.

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Of course." Gates almost shrugged.

"In the last three days, sir, I've been shot at, clawed to death, my team has been disassembled, and the peacekeeping task force you all gave me licence to assemble has been reduced to four agents—by Reed Richards' most ineffectual foe, I might add. Now, I understand that you've been in this game far longer than I have, but I would like to know. Sir. Just what the hell is going on here?"

Gates sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the desk idly. His jacket was unbuttoned and the tie hung lazily down his chest, resting in a folded lump on his gut.

"Norman," he said. "I'm telling you right now. This is in your best interest to not think about too closely. We are handling it. We have handled it."

"Handle it, hm?" Osborn was getting annoyed. He jerked his head and shot Gates a deformed and pissy look. "May I ask precisely what you've handled?"

Gates leaned forward.

"A new carrier is on its way to us."

"From whom?" Osborn asked.

"The principality of Latveria," Gates said and matched the snotty tone.

"Huh?" Osborn's face twisted again. One of his eyebrows angled up and his lips curled open.

"I had this conversation with General Ross a few days ago. Reed Richards went into Latveria once before. Took control and ended up making a mess of the damn place. So did Nick Fury, and Tony Stark. The point of all this, Norman, is that we feel it's in the national interest to maintain hospitable relations with Latveria. They offered a helping hand when we needed one. And we took it. Graciously. The last thing we need is some damn magic war we can't win. Now, your approval isn't necessary, Norman, but if you're going to be a stumbling block, then there're ways around that, too."

Pause.

Then Osborn said, "Understood." And sounded deflated.

"Good," Gates said. Then disconnected.

The screen faded to black.

Osborn shot out a disaffected sigh through his nostrils and slid the iPhone back down the table to Hand. He sat back and turned around. Looked out the window.

"Leave me," he said and cocked his head back at Hand and Moonstone and Bullseye.

He kept his eye on them until all three had gone. Until he heard the elevator ding open and the doors slide shut after them.

_Well, Normie, congratulations on surviving the great sacking._

He couldn't shake it.

"Something's not right," he said and his voice alternated between vocalisation and whisper. And he repeated it. "Something's not right."

"Norman."

He turned around. There were three elevators in the bank ahead of him. The doors were sliding shut on the middle one and the figure in front of it was smiling at him.

Emma Frost.

His eyes narrowed and he suppressed the urge to leap across the table and defenestrate her.

"Emma," he said through gritted teeth. "What's going on?"

She scoffed and smiled. "The great Norman Osborn hasn't a clue. What a radical departure."

Osborn shot out of his chair. His face went from zero to red. Incensed. Pissed.

"God damn you! I demand to know what's going on!"

"Are you finished?"

Osborn let out a low grumble. "Emma. Tell me what—"

"You were taken," she interrupted. "Imprisoned at the roots of reality itself, Norman. Technically dead."

"You sold me out!"

"No," she said and turned back to the elevator. "And everyone else remembers what happened, Norman. Except you."

Grimly, he said, "What?"

"It behoves you to continue our association. We run things now, and you would do well to believe that bit of hyperbole. Refuse, and your hard drive finds its way into the hands of the President. We are the ones keeping it safe. Keeping you safe."

Osborn chuckled, his throat phlegmatic and gruff. "You think you scare me?"

"No," she said. "But you won't do anything about it. You still need us. And now you'll owe us. All of us."

Frost smiled. A thin and seductive and hateful affair. The elevators dinged open and she stepped inside.

"And Norman?"

He looked up at her.

"Be seeing you."

* * *

**Castle Doom.**

**Reed Richards.**

Castle Doom was five hundred years old.

It had survived destruction, invasion, looting. Reed Richards' occupation and defilement and dismantling of Victor's entire programme. Nick Fury's secret war and, shortly thereafter, Tony Stark's far more public one that resulted in its utter destruction.

It had taken a mere moment to rebuild it.

Once its master became unencumbered. No longer bound by the trite parlance of international law.

These days Victor von Doom rested easily.

For the first time in twenty years, his dreams were peaceful. Mother had been saved. His country returned to him after eighteen months of existence on the brink. Even the setback of the Cabal's strike against Osborn in the past week bothered him little.

It mattered not that Loki had imprisoned Osborn at the roots of Yggdrasil, nor that the God of Mischief had released his murdered quarry when faced with his uncompromising brother, the God of Thunder.

Loki's capitulation both fascinated and disgusted Doom. Despite being 'part of the plan'.

They had shown Osborn their powers. Their capabilities. And the God of Mischief had returned him to his precious Avengers with nary a memory of being kidnapped, or imprisoned at the roots of Yggdrasil.

Osborn knew nothing. Loki had assured them of this.

The rest of them knew everything. It was necessarily that way.

So the manipulations could continue. So the essay on failure, writ large with the name of Norman Osborn, could continue.

So the war could continue.

And there were always more opportunities. More plans. The mission remained the same. His war continued. For Doom, who always viewed the world as a system of mathematical plusses, minuses and proofs, the fundamental equation was simple.

The object was Richards. Is Richards. Has always been. Will always be.

That was why, and Doom was certain of this, Osborn himself would surely fail.

His aims were too diffuse. And he would never deliver his promises. Either out of sheer inability to do so, or a willingness toward subterfuge and double-crossing, even among his allies. He would never win. And since Osborn viewed the world as a zero-sum affair, labelling his failure as 'inability to win' was really the only way to quantify it.

And the Lord of Latveria?

He ever believed in the absolute advantage.

His victory would be assured. Mathematically proven.

Someday.

The walkway ran the length of the roof and provided an open-air view of Doomstadt and of the countryside. The crenellations along the way were carved as hunching gargoyles with dead eyes observing the traveller. Doom sat at the end of the walkway, in the centre of an embattlement, also hunched over an ornate square chess table. It was carved from a single piece of Carrara marble, with smaller squares of Krakatoan amphiboles denoting the black squares. The legs were curving, ornate gargoyles that channelled Rodin's thinker; each touched a gnarled inhuman hand to a chin and supported the table on granite shoulders.

Doom himself was channelling Rodin and The Thinker. Hunched. Legs in a curve under the chair. One arm crossed over his chest, the other on top of it; his thumb followed the faceplate's jawline, his finger ran up the front, just underneath the left eyehole.

Richards sat across from him. One leg was crossed over the other, utterly genial. He had an annoying habit of sitting back in his chair and titling his thumbs when it was not his move.

Richards leant forward. With one hand he slid a bishop down to Victor's A-6 and plucked off the Queen.

Under the cold steel faceplate, Doom let out a quiet and dissatisfied monotone.

"You know, Victor, I found out something most remarkable this week."

"That must have hurt."

"It took Johnny explaining it to us before it actually sunk in. He was talking about how Osborn couldn't understand the role of a hero. Couldn't figure out what makes us tick. In his case, what makes Spider-Man tick."

"And you believed your brother in law?"

"Yes. And I applied it to this," Reed said and moved a finger between himself and Doom in the ping-pong waggle. "Do you know what I figured out?"

"No." Doom elled his Knight to take Richards' remaining pawn. A pedestrian move, but necessary. "Kx5."

"I think," Reed said, "That you get it, Victor. You understand it perfectly. There can be little other explanation for why you do what you do."

"And what would that be, Dr Richards?"

"Going up against every hero this side of Squirrel Girl," Reed said. "Trying to take their powers and rule the world. Qh5."

Doom shot him a death glare at the name-drop, and thumbed his bishop thoughtfully

Reed continued. "I think you've always understood the idea of a hero. What makes one. What breaks one. I think you get a little poetic thrill out of the nature-vs-nurture dynamic and the sociology of the superhuman. Incidentally, I've just thought of the title for my next dissertation."

"Egad, Richards." Doom's voice, for once, was not indignant. It remained equanimous throughout. Perhaps because his mind was engrossed in the game. He slid a rook up one row and took Richards' Knight, hiding in the back. "Bb7. What next, you'll tell me what I should eat for dinner?"

"You take my point."

"Reluctantly. Your move."

Richards moved his King up a spot and took Doom's bishop with his two free fingers. "Ne4. Anyway. It was an observation."

"A positively shrewd one at that. Are we to indulge mindless prattle all afternoon?"

"The game was my idea," Reed said. "I admit. But I remain glad and maybe even a little surprised that you took me up on it."

"Consider it my good deed for the day. May I presume you've also come to ask me something?"

Richards slid his Queen in line with Victor's King. "Bxd3. Check," he said. Then: "If you'll permit me."

"Of course."

"I'm sure you've heard of what happened to Dr Elder."

"Of course. He destroyed the HAMMER Carrier. It was his missile that destroyed your Lincoln Memorial."

"And your idea," Richards said and looked squarely at Doom. "You put him up to it. I don't even have to ask 'am I right?' because I know it. And you know it too. I wouldn't go so far as to say it was a stupid thing to do. Mostly because I don't believe in stupidity but moreover because I think you knew exactly what was going to happen. All along."

"Correct."

"That's the only reason you got the Mole-Man in this in the first place. Because he's as bothered with the surface world as Namor is. As pissed off as you. And always willing to listen. You made him a perfect patsy."

Beneath the cold steel faceplate, Doom's bloodshot eyes slid from Richards back down to the game. "The game is yours, Richards. You may take the King."

Richards' eyelids did a unison rise and fall. The silent 'if you insist'. And he took Victor's King.

Doom sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. Clasped his armoured hands together on his lap. It was a mirror of Richards' own posture.

"You are," Doom said, "as ever, correct. It was I who allowed Dr Elder to think himself a god."

"Capitalizing on what he always wanted."

Doom cocked his head. The eyes narrowed. "Harvey Elder was never one of us, yet he looked to Namor and to me with pride. He longed to be part of our fraternity. I gave him that."

"You took pity on him. And ended up throwing him to the wolves."

Doom plucked his King from the board and held it to his eye for a moment, rolling it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. "It is his function, Richards. And mine."

"And you gave me those files on Osborn. Which makes me think you're not so hard as you like to think. And I know better."

"I know this," Doom said. "Yet I feel compelled to ask, Richards. Why indulge the frivolity of hope?"

Reed looked up. The sky was darker now. The sun faded down to a lustrous deep red. "Because I'm a man of hope, Victor. Because I believe we as humans can affect change. That if we're not quite all good people, we at least have the power to be. Which I why I think, despite everything I know about you that should prove otherwise, you're more virtuous than you let on. You threatened my family, you sent my son to Hell. But you also saved my wife's life. And my daughter's. We are capable of using our compassion and our intelligence, our technology and our wealth, to make an abundant and meaningful life for every inhabitant of this planet. Victor. I won't ask why you choose the opposite path. But I'll at least ask if you've considered it."

Underneath the steel armour and the green cloak, Doom seemed to shrug. "An astute assumption, Richards. As peerless as the day Dr Sagan said it."

"I try," Richards said in passing. "So?"

"I suspect," Doom said. "Our ideas on the idea of 'straight and true' vary wildly. There was a time when I might have done things your way. Then Mephisto came. And Doom learned that his fortunes would ever be tied to the gossamer threads of the underworld. And of my mother."

"You saved her," Richards said. "Years ago. Why keep up this charade?"

"It suits me."

Reed face creased into a dissatisfied look. "Victor."

Doom's eyes went to Reed.

"I never believed that it was Dr Elder who launched that missile at the Lincoln Memorial. Did you do it, Victor? I know you have the technology. I've seen it."

Doom waited. Then said, "Will you risk negating every one of those precious treaties your country has engineered with me in the wake of Nick Fury's Secret War? Did you know Tony Stark broke those treaties when he invaded my country and deposed me? Why is invading my land a recurring theme with you people?"

"I would've done the same," Reed said with a severe look.

"You did," Doom said. He stood and swept up the excess length of his cape in the crook of one arm and went to the embattlement to stare out at the country. "As I recall it was Fury, of all people, who told you to surrender."

"I was trying to stop you."

Doom turned. Slowly.

Under the cold steel faceplate, he was smiling. He had the sense that Richards felt it, because when they locked eyes again Richards froze. For an at once interminable and fleeting moment, Richards froze.

"Richards," he said. "In no reality. In no time. In no place. Shall you ever stop me. You are unlikely to discover this for yourself, so allow me to spoon-feed your painfully dim mind. You live, to this day you survive, because of my clemency. It was I who delivered those files to you, fully intending that you would forward them to your president and thus hasten Osborn's downfall. Do you know why?"

"Tell me." Reed didn't move.

"As it turns out," Doom said, "your brother in law was correct. Osborn knows nothing of men like us. For all his efforts he remains a manic-depressive insect. He imagines himself a god. My conspiracy with the God of Mischief served to underscore this flaw in the man."

"And Scott Lang? Why him?"

"He was to be a weapon against you, Richards. But. He proved. Most resilient. For what it is worth, you may have him. For however long he's got."

"You underestimate him. And me."

Doom turned. Looked back at the horizon. "I always have. The war has taken a turn Richards. Conquest no longer interests me."

"A change in management?"

"I seek a moral victory," Doom said wistfully. "I want to prove you wrong. Your superhuman civil war was a step in the right direction. I shall not stop until every person in that country has derided you. Humiliated you. Reduced you to ruin. Then and only then shall I send you headfirst into oblivion."

Richards got in his face.

"You can try," he said. The wind picked up and tousled Richards' hair. "We both know how that will end."

"True."

"But that's not why I'm here. And you know that too."

Under the cold steel faceplate, the Lord of Latveria cracked a thin and painful smile.

"You caught a glimpse of my new model Doombots in the Negative Zone, did you not."

"Yes."

Doom cocked his head skyward. Absent-mindedly and with a hint of distance in his voice, he said, "And you desire yet another laboratory performance. Let me guess. Analysis of the internal logic networks? Comparative sentience diagnostics between your designs and my Ultron-inspired platform?"

"Something like that." Reed sat back in his chair and felt tense for a long moment. It passed when Doom turned back to him.

"Very well," Doom said. "You may take possession of a single chassis, Richards. On one condition."

"What?"

"Osborn's memory has been retrograded to six hours after the destruction at Monster Island. He believes that he was fetched by the one he calls Moonstone and brought back to New York. He recalls none of the business within the Negative Zone, nor does he recall being kidnapped by the God of Mischief. If you value his sanity, if you value the fragility on which your country now rests, maintain this status quo. Else you shall deal with me. And all the powers of Hell."

Reed chortled. "You expect me to do that for you, Victor?"

"No," Doom said. "I expect you to do it for yourself."

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

**The Pentagon.**

"Good," Gates said. Then disconnected. A few hundred miles up the coast from the capital, Norman Osborn was already yelling at Emma Frost. Here, however, in the darkened office of the Secretary of Defense, with the lights powered down and giving off dim haloes, there was quiet.

He sat back in his chair. Ran a hand over one side of his face and blew out a sigh. Loosened his tie.

And heard his office door shut.

The video screen was on a credenza behind his desk. The office door lay five metres in front of the desk.

He turned slowly in his chair. In the darkness, two glowing red spots flared to life.

Gates trembled.

"So," he said. "It's done, then. I did what you asked."

"You did fine. And those files Reed Richards sent you? The recording of the conversation he had with Spider-Man?"

"Both destroyed," Gates said. "You have my word."

"Good," Robbins said. His neck distended and the tendons underneath stood out in broad strands. His mouth curled down at the sides in feigned disgust. It was a show. Designed to show Gates, who Robbins conceptualized as a stand-in for dickheaded authority figures everywhere, just what Parker Robbins thought of him. "My superiors tell me that the Mole-Man has been sent to The Hague for trial. Is this a problem for your superiors, Mr Secretary?"

"No," Gates said. "No problem. We. We're just interested in seeing justice served."

"Oh, never you mind about that. It will be."

The figure stepped forward, bathed dimly from head to toe in the soft glow of the disc-lamp on Gates' desk. The red spots glowed brilliantly, hatefully, and emitted curling wisps of smoke from the fleshy prison of Parker Robbins. The red hood hung lifeless at his shoulders, the cloak covered his face in shadows that showed only a stubbly and angular chin and the burning red eyes. A wicked and self-satisfied grin wormed across his face and intercut the stubble.

Robbins pulled the Glock from his waistband and pressed it against Gates' forehead and grimaced a little when he saw a bead of sweat plop onto the barrel-end.

"We'll be in touch. Robert."

* * *

**The Baxter Building.**

**Reed Richards.**

He was standing on the roof, leaning against the railing and staring out at Manhattan's glittering skyline. And, as usual, lost in himself.

He kept thinking_, I told you, Victor. I've been telling you for twenty years._

And then he posited that Victor wasn't interested in whether Reed was right or not.

Victor didn't care. Right and wrong were words to him. Not better than the sky or the grass. Just. Incidentals.

Then it became easier for Reed to get a track on Victor.

If he wasn't interested in right or wrong, then it stood to reason that he didn't care about outcomes either. Plus and minus were contradictions. Victor had only ever seen things in terms of plusses.

His damn machine blowing up in his face hadn't even been a minus.

Reed took a drag on his pipe and clenched the bit between his teeth.

A breeze was rolling in from the Hudson.

He took a deep breath and held it and figured that it could pass for a sigh. Then let it go.

He heard footsteps behind him and cocked his head a degree. Then he felt her hand around his waist and her head on his shoulder. And didn't see her.

"Sue," he said with a fond little smile. "Why hide?"

"Because I know you can tell." She reappeared. Beautiful.

Just beautiful. Blonde hair in curling strands running down her face. Big blue eyes hat reflected the skyscrapers shine. Perfectly tan. Perfect smile. Just perfect.

Years ago, Reed had once been at Columbia. New York was big, even to him, and he was lost within twelve seconds of being in the city. To alleviate the stress, and to cut back on costs, he had taken up boarding with what the Yellow Pages called the Storm House. It was there that he met Sue. She was 12 at the time and Reed too wrapped up in his work and prelims on the alleged rocket to pay her much mind.

But she was there. Standing in the doorway most nights, her head peeking in and staring at him longingly, or maybe dumbfoundedly, while he was hunched over the draft board and writing up grant proposals on a positively ancient Remington 16 typewriter.

He'd reencountered her again. Years later. She had grown and he had too. And she had lost none of her beauty. Or her fascination with him. It was almost insectoid in a way, the way she used to pore over his every note. Especially if she didn't understand them, it still captivated him.

Someone had taken an interest in his work. Someone who actually wanted to hear about non-moving parts in rocket propulsions. Comparative AI systems. Transmodes and dimensional heuristics.

It meant Reed finally had found someone. Someone that he could talk to that wasn't the Curriculum Committee or the Fulbright Committee or the Sciences and Physics Chair at State University.

Someone who.

Loved him.

Yes. That was it.

Of course he could never prove it then, and it was only in the past ten years that he'd been ready and willing to give up any empirical desire to quantify Sue.

She was.

Incalculable.

That was it. That was what he loved about her.

It was one mystery he would never solve. And never wanted to.

She kissed him. "Penny for your thoughts, dear?"

Another drag on the pipe. "We barely made it through."

And that was true.

They had all survived the return trip through the Negative Zone gateway. Reed had gone back up the ramp to switch the thing off before whatever was in the Negative Zone came through.

Reed recriminated himself for thinking 'whatever was in there' was accurate terminology.

It was the Void.

And immediately after they had returned to the Baxter Building, Reed's sensors fired off the charts. Seismic registers for the moon of Baluur, on which Prison Alpha lay, were redlining. Radiation levels were up. They dipped down to zero momentarily, then quickly to red. Snicker-snack. And then lay still.

Reed had stretched his head over and through the gateway.

Negative space was oxygenated. No trouble there.

Only, no Baluur moon. And Baluur itself. Was burning. Even high up on the ecliptic, with his elasticized head poking out of the nothingness, Reed could see it. Or at least could piece it together.

The Void had eaten Baluur's moon. And Prison Alpha. The resulting distortion and fallout were the cause of the inferno Richards scrutinized.

He'd pulled his head out and gone to his lab table.

Mind-sensors on a dummy head would do the trick. He slid them on and focused himself. They'd functioned much like brain-wave monitors: the canvas-webbed kind with red dots in the centre denoting activity, which fed back to a monitoring system.

He'd devised the system after attending an insomnia seminar. It served as a particularly efficient cerebral ditto machine, sending impulses into his subconscious to stimulate memory banks and relay them to a waiting hard drive.

Then he had sent that hard drive—three days worth of data and conversations, both with Osborn and Doom, along with the files Victor delivered, down to Washington.

And in the less charitable assessment of the week, matters were less novel. They all had made the foolish mistake of going into the Negative Zone in the first place. Falling into Victor and Loki's trap like a bunch of rank amateurs.

Matters worsened when the Void rematerialized from Robert Reynolds.

Reed should have caught the ploy.

Loki and Victor wanted them there. They knew Sentry would be in tow, and Victor especially knew what the Sentry was capable of and how unbalanced he was.

Victor and Bob, along with Tony Stark, had recently shared a trip through time.

And on their return, Bob had promptly humiliated Bob and thrown him in The Raft.

It struck Reed as curious and maybe even a little admirable that Victor hadn't tried to kill Bob for that. He'd tried to kill Ben and Johnny for far less—but most likely of all, Victor stayed away from Bob because he, like Tony and Hank and Steve Rogers, didn't have a clue how to kill him.

Though Victor would never admit that.

So Reed should have caught the trap. But he was so focused on Scott Lang that he missed the trees for the forest.

He thought, _if you strip away everything else from Victor, he still does have one superpower._ One thing more than any other that haunts Reed. And though Reed would never admit it, it was there.

Victor's superpower was his ability to utterly confound Reed Richards.

He'd been doing it for twenty years, with amazing self-awareness.

Victor always knew exactly what he was doing. Nothing ever happened to him by accident. Every imprisonment, every defeat, every destruction and every death.

He planned for them all.

"Reed?"

Sue's voice called him back to the present.

"What is it?" he said and rolled the pipe to one corner of his mouth.

"You're thinking in piles again," she said with a cute smirk.

"Yes." His voice was ethereal. And sad. "Just thinking of Victor again. And wondering when and for how long he had that Doombot out there doing his work."

"You think the whole time?"

"No," Reed said. "He visited my lab yesterday. Gave me those files on Osborn. It's because of Victor that we were able to corner Osborn this morning."

"Too bad Loki got him from us."

"It was worth it," Reed said. "Going in there and getting him back."

"Yep," Sue said and wrapped her other hand around Reed's waist. Tightened and let out a happy sigh. "We have Luke Cage to thank for that."

Reed sighed. "And Victor. I suppose."

"Hey," she said.

"Mm?"

She kissed him and said, "You keep blaming yourself for Victor, you know, you're never going to get rid of me."

"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?" And he kissed her back.

Near the access door of the observatory, on the other end of the roof, Spider-Man and Johnny Storm were laying on their backs. The aluminium-vibranium plating was comfortable, Johnny thought, and maybe even a little posturiffic. The breeze was flying over them in intermittent waves.

Ben Grimm was a few feet away and leaning on the stairwell doorjamb, halfway into a can of Coca-Cola.

"You look like a buncha girls," Ben said.

"Hey," Johnny said. "I take exception to that. We've had a pretty wacky week, Benjy. I'm good to just lay here and stare at the stars for a while."

"Zat sorta stuff work on Sally?"

"Sally?" Johnny said and looked at Ben, towering upside-down a foot or three above him. "Nah. Natasha, though, definitely. I think it's some kind of Russian thing. I totally would've had her if it weren't for Osborn and us meddling kids!"

"Boo hoo," Spidey said, laying a foot away from Johnny.

"You gonna go all 'love stinks' on me, Pete?"

"Nope," he said and then pulled off his mask. The night breeze cascaded over his face and gave him a moment of reinvigoration. He sighed and entwined his fingers, laying them over the thin Spider-logo on his chest. "Just sayin."

"Oh," Johnny said and stood. He snatched can of Coke out of Ben's rocky paw and handed it back to Spidey. "Here, Pete."

"Hey, come on with that!" Ben cried.

"I owe you," Johnny said. Spidey took it and looked at the can oddly for a moment. It was dented on two sides, the signs of Ben's possession a moment ago. He peered into the open mouthhole. And chuckled.

"You buncha girls," Ben mumbled. He threw the door open and walked in, heaving it shut with a massive thud. Johnny started chuckling and listened to Ben grumbling all the way down the stairs.

"Hey, Johnny," Parker said and sounded calm and maybe even a little childish.

"Ayuh?"

Parker raised his arm, which terminated in a tightly wound fist. Johnny raised his own and bumped it.

"Thanks," Parker said. "Thanks for coming after me."

Somewhere in the distance a siren blared. A woman screamed. A car horn bleated on its way down Fifth Avenue. In a minute they were going to have to get up and go deal with that.

For the moment, though, Johnny said, "My pleasure, Pete."

And it was.

A mile above them, hiding in the glaring and brilliant disc of the Full Moon, too small and unremarkable to be picked out by anyone that wasn't looking for them, The Sentry and Noh Varr hovered. Bob was doing it under his own power. Noh Varr had a miniaturized space-pack around his waist that acted as personal environment generator for deep space travel, and hover-technology for Earthbound business. They stayed there for a long moment. Gazing down at the Baxter Building roof with an odd nostalgia.

Then Sentry turned away, and Noh Varr followed.

They shrunk even further into the moonlight, as if absorbed by lunar brilliance. And then were gone.

Past the Moon. Past Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Past Mar-Vell's grave on Titan.

The infinity of the lay ahead of them. And for the first time in months, Robert Reynolds felt certain. Complete.

The Void had destroyed Baluur and its moon. But Reynolds had remained. That was his power.

One he could easily accept.

* * *

**_The End..._**


	16. Postlude: Johnny and Peter

**Author's Note: **I hope you'll excuse this entirely too-belated interlude to my little story of dubious import. Structurally it dovetails purposefully with the chapters 'Negative I' and 'Negative Reality', and you have my word that this'll be the last of the tampering; I've staved off post-story additions for six years now, only to cave here when I felt Johnny and Peter's little side-plot needed a bit of additional attention fully a year and a half _after _I finished the original story. Lambaste away, if you must, particularly since this story hasn't really aged well, I feel. Anyway. It occurred to me that I never really explained why, after leading the charge into Prison 42 to reclaim Spider-Man from the ever-so dastardly clutches of Loki and Dr Doom, Johnny and your friendly neighborhood what's his face simply vanished. So what I've done here is dig out a lost part of the story. Maybe not so lost, for little new ground is broken. Instead I've gone for a bit of a retrospective, a character flashback: taken some of the things I've been thinking and writing about the FF, their relationship to Spidey, and their role in the Marvel Universe vis-a-vis secret identities-and applied all that to the thematic milieu which is 'Powers': a sprawling, if disjointed, notation on what makes heroes and keeps them heroes in Norman Osborn's America. At the time of this writing, I should also note, that notion of Osborn's America might seem a little moot-given the events of _Siege _and the final result of _Dark Reign_. But there are still lessons there. Mostly about why a guy like Spider-Man would keep on keeping on. But that's another story, another time. For now, we don't mention Osborn that much, and so this interlude is more of a meditation on Johnny and Peter: more indirectly, on the very roots of Marvel's First Family. I hope you enjoy it...

* * *

**The Negative Zone, Prison Alpha.**

**Spider-Man.**

The first instance of light in Peter Parker's eyes brought pain. More so than usual.

He was lying in his back, and he knew this because if he lay perfectly flat or perfectly still for a long time his shoulder started to act up.

He sat up slowly and groaned and scratched his head.

Didn't bother asking where he was, because the answer was right in front of him. Like usual but especially now.

Loki was standing there in some damn confabulation of armour, with gilded plating across the torso and shoulder paulders. Dr Doom was standing next to him, his green cloak draped over him. He looked like a floating curtain with a metal skull for a head. A quintet of giant rocky things with the classic Cylon uni-eye stood behind him.

They were standing in the middle of a long catwalk done up in silver armour-plating. In the recesses on either side were Doombots. A shitload of Doombots.

Up ahead in the distance, on a wide dais, there was Namor, one hand on his hip, the other wrapped tightly around a gilded trident. He was, as usual, giving Spider-Man the perpetual sourpuss look. Surrounded by a group of his blue-skinned Atlanteans friends with swords in one hand and polearms in the other.

And Emma Frost was there too, with three girls who looked exactly freaking like her standing around her.

And the Mole-Man with a couple of the shrivelled little yellow guys with bad odours, bad manners, and the weirdest damn killing instinct this side of Kraven.

And a big stocky Asgardian-type fellow with a big honkin battle axe, and about ten other big Asgardian types behind the first guy. All with battle axes.

More good news.

Peter Parker frowned through the facemask as he finally sorted it all out.

Then he looked at Loki again, and it made sense.

"You messed with my mind!" Spider-Man said and flew forward. The lunge required what energy he had left, and he threw his hands in front of him. He was going to choke the life from Loki.

But he stopped in mid-air.

Dr Doom had one of his steel-plated arms thrown forth, the fingers extended skyward. The demagogue appealing to his people. Or shushing an already entranced crowd. It was the latter for Parker, except for that whole entranced bit.

Invisible fibres of mystical source held Spider-Man motionless in the air.

"Your parlour tricks have no place here," Dr Doom said.

Loki stepped forward and touched Spider-Man's chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger. Alas Poor Parker, we knew ye well.

"What the hell did you do?" He was almost barking it at Loki.

"I gave you an image of what your life was—or, might have been."

"Clever," Spider-Man said and didn't mean it. "I've fallen for that before. What chance did you think you stood?"

"A slim one, I must admit," Loki conceded. "But it was a meaningful exercise. I perceived the deepest parts of your brain. I explored your fears and loves and longings and anxieties. It was most illuminating."

"Why?"

"I wanted to tamper, if you wish me to be fully honest," Loki said and offered his hands in a contrite apologetic. "I wanted to see what it was that warranted such attention from your Norman Osborn. And of course, I altered the manuscript somewhat."

"Where is he?"

Loki said nothing to that. Only raised his head a degree so he could look down his nose at Spider-Man. The nostrils flared and stayed there for a moment. "He is safe."

"Why am I here?"

Then Loki laughed. "My dear boy, I took your friend Osborn and brought him here. It was you who followed against all rationale. Are we really going to have a culpability argument? While we're on the subject, this army you see before you?"

"Yeah." Spider-Man saw them from his periphery. Lots of Doombots. LOTS of Doombots.

"They are a defence mechanism. Meant to keep us safe from your friends."

"Funny," Spider-Man said. "I keep my friends safe from people like you."

Loki snorted. Turned away.

"You are a most interesting creature, Peter Parker. You've experienced death, the betrayal and loss of your friends. You're a mere man by our conventions, and yet you have seen much. You know all there is of life and death. The fates have gambled your life recklessly for lo, these many years. And yet you persist, when a saner man might have shot himself in the head."

"Because," Spider-Man choked out, "It's the right th—"

"Be silent," Loki said and scowled. "I am not interested in your justifications. All that matters is that you see things carried out to your satisfaction, Peter Parker. And that is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you aren't going to ask how I've come by that knowledge?"

"Not really," Spidey said. "You're a god. You do things like this."

"That I am," Loki said and bowed with a wide grin. When he came back up, his face was severe again, the eyes piercing right through Parker. "But it doesn't really matter who I am, Peter. May I call you Peter?"

Spidey shrugged as much as he could.

Loki chortled. Once. A brief affair that mixed air forcing out of his nostrils with a quiet chirp from high in his throat.

Dr Doom gestured again, and Spider-Man levelled out on the armour-plated floor. No longer bound by gossamer threads of infinity.

The God of Mischief turned in place and strolled backward on the catwalk. Ahead lay a vast glass window. If Spider-Man had craned his head all the way back and kept looking up, he would have had to lay on the floor to see the ceiling, gaping in the distant heights. The window—and that was the closest thing he could call it—stared out at a scarred and pock-marked lunar surface. The star field was brilliant. Shimmering. Alive.

And then he figured it out.

"Oh God," he said. "This. This is. The Negative Zone prison."

"Correct," Loki said. His back turned to Spider-Man, his head angled slightly, staring at the shifting blue-white surface of the planet Baluur in the distance. He half-turned back to Spider-Man. "Peter Parker, you identified me a moment ago as your God of Mischief."

"Not my God," Spidey said. Crossed his arms over his chest.

Loki went on like he hadn't heard that. "I'm so much more now. So much has changed since the rebirth cycle. Thor is gone. Asgard is mine. And your pitiful world shall soon be mine as well. Does that please you, Peter?"

"Look, I know what you're doing. The Bond speech. I grew up on those, courtesy of Norman Osborn. You know 'im, you just shanghaied him away from Manhattan a second ago. You tell me where he is, I'll take him back and you and Doomsie can go back to whatever the hell it is you're doing in here. None of us has to speak of this ever again."

Loki's half-turned became a full one. He was facing Spider-Man head-on now, and he looked absolutely disgusted. The slender and pompous face had bent itself into a hideous glower. Offended at the thought of unrecognition.

"You think this is about Osborn?" Then he laughed, deep and unctuous. "You mortals do astonish me from time to time. No, this is not about Norman Osborn. For surely as Yggdrasil is strong, Norman Osborn is but a pebble floating in the ocean. He is nothing, Peter Parker. Nothing! The roots of all our lives go very deep, and Norman Osborn's have not even seeded themselves. He's a shell, a wasted carapace who thinks he runs things. This is an old refrain we have used for some time."

"Then why bother with the speech?" Spider-Man asked.

Loki cocked his head tiredly. "Because, Spider-Man, you are the perfect witness to my glorious mystical proof. You have seen much and gone far and yet your eyes do not wander. You do not seek dominion or wealth. Yours is a far more provincial, if more laudable and consequently less interesting, goal. You want justice."

"And you want to kill everyone," Spider-Man said. "You know I can't let you do that."

Loki stormed toward him. Spider-Man was actually suppressing a chuckle as the God of Mischief came barreling toward him.

Then Loki drew a sword from a brass scabbard, raised it wide around his waist. And let it fly.

The tip caught Spider-Man six inches above his crotch. It sliced through the suit and the skin and for a moment he thought his intestines would come bubbling out after the broken hoses of blood calmed down.

So Parker stood there for the next moment in a daze, clutching his stomach and watching the blood stick to his gloves in hot and gooey bands, and felt lunch churning itself in response. And he really wanted to go home right about now.

Loki slid the sword back into the scabbard and turned away. The whole thing took about three seconds.

"You are fortunate, Peter Parker. The Eddas tell of Tyrfing killing someone every time it is drawn. But for you, I make this exception."

Slowly, Spider-Man looked up at Loki.

Loki's face was drawn now. The features were drawn and smooth, the eyes sort of. Glistening. "I don't want to kill you," he said. "Or your friends. I want to show them the truth. I want to indulge their double-standards to their logical extreme. And I want you to be there, mortal."

Spider-Man chuckled.

Behind him, he heard crackling. He was no Reed Richards. Not even Hank Pym.

But since he was usually right about these things, he guessed it was some kind of gateway. One that Loki, for all his godhood, had apparently overlooked.

So he said, "Okay, Loki," calmly enough. "You win."

And sort of. Bent over.

The gateway behind him crackled with bioelectric discharge: the undulating field of blue energy that comprised the proper barrier swelled out. Spider-Man saw it in slow motion.

Johnny Storm was the first through.

He picked up Spider-Man. And then they were airborne and going ever higher.

Johnny had come for him.

Spider-Man looked down.

The Thing was the next one out of the gate. Then Wolverine. Both of whom dove headlong into one of the Doombot recesses and started doing their thing.

Johnny threw him over his shoulder. The fireman's carry. And flew a step angle for the roof of Prison 42.

Roof? Can't they give it a better name? Something with 60's flair, Peter. Something cool and Jet-Age and sexy. The marvelous steel structure on which the hopes of Earth's Mightiest rest! Catch it in this week's Tales to Astonish!

He chuckled. Drunkenly. Half-comatose.

Johnny flung a hand out and burned a hole through the ceiling so they could pass. Then he slowed and landed on one knee. Laid Spider-Man on his back.

Through cracked eyepieces, Spider-Man stared silently at the star field above Prison 42 and Baluur.

"This how you handle the kiddies?" he asked.

Johnny smiled. "Something like that."

Spider-Man propped himself on an elbow, and Johnny eased him back down.

Under the mask, Peter Parker frowned. "Uh. There's no atmosphere. How are we alive?"

"Negative Zone has oxygenated space," Johnny said. "I was surprised too, when we first visited." Then he cocked an eye and frowned. "'Course, then Annihilus showed up."

Spider-Man coughed and pulled the mask off with a weary, trembling hand. Tossed it aside and wiped his face with both hands.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Johnny."

Johnny pointed a finger at Parker and made a Dan Drebin face. "Stop it. You and I go way back. Most of my life, at this point. You get in trouble, I come running."

Parker chuckled, and suppressed a bit of blood at the back of his throat.

"Yeah," he wheezed.

"That is," Johnny said, "When you don't go running to Murdock." The Dan Drebin face turned into a sly little grin.

"Oh hey, in my defense, Murdock needs me a lot more than I need him, okay? Let's just get that straight."

"I was always fuzzy on his whole…thing. I mean, what happened?"

"Ehh, some gangster got a bright idea, some other stuff happened, he was in jail, then he wasn't. Now I don't think anyone cares."

Johnny's eyes flashed up and down in succession. "Huh. Well I guess that's a thing."

"Yeah," Parker said and spit the blood out. He cocked his head and watched it pool in a random oval on the metal. Whatever this place was made of, it gleamed even in the starlight.

"Peter."

Parker looked up at Johnny. Slowly.

"Loki really ran you down, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Parker said and coughed again. "Still, it's fine. I'm fine."

Johnny narrowed his eyes and looked up.

"Is that some Spider-code for, like, not fine?"

Parker looked away from him.

"You know the banter?"

"The parts where you call Norman Osborn a delicate little flower every Thursday? Sure, who doesn't?"

"It's an act."

Johnny's eyes darted in their sockets. He let out an incredulous chuckle. "Uh. I know."

"It was the first thing I thought of," Parker said. "You know. Way back when this was new to me. I thought…it would make them less scared of me. Does that even make sense?"

Johnny looked back at him.

A long silent moment passed.

Parker laid down, weaved his fingers in one another on his chest and let out a weary breath.

Johnny said, "Do you remember when we first met?"

Parker laughed. "What was I thinking?"

"You wanted a paycheck," Johnny said. "If I remember that right."

"Pretty much."

Pause.

"The paper bag was pretty dumb, though."

Then they both laughed.

Johnny started snapping his fingers. Snap—lighting his thumb on fire—and snap—blowing it out.

"Did I ever tell you why Reed cashed us out?"

"Huh?"

"After the rocket came back, I mean. Why he gave us goofy names. These suits and this life and moved us into the Baxter Building?"

"Maybe," Parker said. "I mean, probably you have, but I forget. I think."

"I'm trying to have what Sue calls a teachable moment here, Pete."

Parker waved an idle hand. "Teach on."

"He told me why once. Reed, I mean. Not that he'd tell anyone else, except for Sue and Ben. I mean no one. Okay? Not Stark, not Pym, not anyone else in his little Professor's Club."

"I get the picture."

"He said to me, he says, 'something amazing has happened to us'. This wasn't too long after we got out of the hospital—you know, we kind of had to go there after the crash and what-not."

"Yeah."

"So he says, 'This is a gift'—to which Ben promptly says, 'or a mean joke'. 'Course, Ben was pretty crabby about the whole thing for a long time after, you know."

"How long?"

"Well, it was a very long hospital stay, I'll say that," Johnny said. Then he smiled, and continued.

"So Reed feels guilty about the whole thing. Guilty over what happened to Ben. Guilty over dragging his fiancé into space with him and guilty over what happened to her. Not to mention, y'know, that I was like 15 at the time. Not exactly spacefaring age, yeah?"

"I went into space once."

"I know. Beyonder. We all did. I'm trying to emote here, Pete."

Parker waved another hand and said, "Fine, sorry. Go on."

Below, an explosion rocked the prison. The plating shuddered and groaned.

Guns and more explosions.

The distinctive sound of Cyclops' visor tearing a hole across the room, probably slamming into some poor idiot's face.

Plasma burts—Johnny had heard those enough times to be sure that's what they were. The even more distinctive tenor from a Doombots axial servos, weapons and boot repulsors.

"We should get down there," Parker said.

"They don't need us," Johnny said and looked back at the star field. "Sorry if that sounds shitty. Trust me, though, Pete. Ben and Logan are more than a match for a couple-hundred Doombots."

"Yeah?"

Another explosion. A single Doombot head flying out of the hole Johnny had earlier burned in the plated roof. Parker watched it fall, clank lifelessly on the metal, and then rest. Dead robot eyes stared up at him. Like a Terminator's, he thought. Red eyepiece under a fauxtainium shell.

Parker cracked a smile.

"I think I just invented a word."

"Oh yeah?"

"Fauxtainium," he said. "For the creepy human look those things have."

"Nice," Johnny said. "Those are the field issues. The human thing is only barely. Me, I think they look more like Sentinels. Y'know. Tiny versions of them anyway."

Another explosion. Then laughing, distant and triumphant.

"Sounds like Logan."

"Yeah," Johnny said with a smooth elation. "That is the sound of a thousand dying Doombots. God of War, Wolverine, and the ever-lovin' blue-eyed what's-his-face. They'll be fine without us."

"So you were teaching me something, then."

"Huh? Oh yeah."

"Classy."

Johnny gave Parker a fake little dirty look, then continued.

"So Reed was guilty. I mean he destroyed the lives of the only people that were really close to him, right? Government scientist isn't exactly a socialite job, you know? Why not feel bad about what happened? Not to mention stealing government property and flying off into the big wide universe without so much as a good countdown, right?"

"Sure."

"So we got back. Changed, but still basically, y'know, us. Heh."

"What?"

"I burned my hospital room on the first day. I woke up and I was burning and all I could think was, 'hey this is pretty cool'. Pretty friggin weird, but pretty friggin cool, too."

"Wow, you really were fifteen."

"What, you weren't?"

"Uh," Parker said. "Not really. Go on."

"Yeah," Johnny said. "We get back to the Baxter Building and Reed says to us, he says 'I've made a mess of your lives'. Or something like that, I don't really remember. But he says 'I've ruined your lives and I'm truly sorry, but I'm going to do my best to make it up to you'. 'Ben', he says, 'I'll devote my time and effort to finding a way to make you human again. Sue, I abused your trust and led you into a dangerous setting, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for that'. You know what he said to me, Pete?"

"That you have more hair products than teenage girl?"

"He said to me, 'Johnny, you're going to have to grow up a little sooner than expected.'"

Pause.

"That's it?"

Johnny sighed and said, "Welcome to my world. Anyway, and here's my point, you know what I figured out about that day The rocket, the crash, these powers?"

"Now when girls say you're hot you get to bust out all your A-level puns?"

"Actually, yes. But here's what I getting at. We got back and Reed felt terrible. So he gave us these suits and he put us in a high-rise in the middle of town. We didn't have masks—well, Ben did there for a while, but that's whatever. We had bank accounts and coffee mugs and the Warhol quartet prints. We opened a gift shop on the ground floor."

"Maybe I should make Spider-Man bumper stickers," Parker muttered.

"You see the problem, right?" Johnny said. "Stark builds himself a suit but refuses to license is because he thinks the government will just end up taking the thing from him. Xavier's whole shtick is fear and loathing. And who knows what Murdock's doing this week to piss off the Federalies, am I right?"

"Sure."

Johnny looked up at the stars again. "Reed cashed us in. I guess I could be pretty upset about that. Y'know, not having a secret life or place to hide."

"But?"

"But then I don't want to, Pete. I like being out there. I like that I can walk to Dunkin' Donuts and sign pictures of myself and get phone numbers. I like that Top Gear asks me to come on and race their cars every so often."

Parker waited a moment. "Why do I feel like there's a regret coming in here somewhere?"

Johnny looked at Parker squarely. "I know where you stand. I understand what happens when your enemies start going after people you love, really I do."

"You have the life for it, Johnny. I don't. You know. I don't have a Negative Zone gateway in the next room, or a sister who can make my brain invisible."

Another moment's pause.

"There's just this," Parker said and gestured lamely at himself.

Johnny patted his shoulder.

"Here's the teachable moment, Pete. I don't think we can make them less scared. Reed made a life for me and Sue and Ben, but you remember Latveria. You remember what Reed did there after he sent Doomsie to the ol' fire down below."

Parker nodded, dazed, and said. "Yeah."

Johnny stood and cracked his knuckles. "Best we can hope for is that they understand us, Pete. And why we do what we do."

"Beating up a fat guy with robotic arms and granny glasses," Parker said. "Just doesn't get the support it used to, I guess."

"That's why I came in here to save you, Pete. Despite the flak I get from the hoi polloi about why someone as terrific as me—and I mean, look at me, come on—why I hang out with a menace like you. We're friends, Pete. Precisely because of these powers of ours."

"I assumed we were secretly arch-rivals angling for Murdock's affections."

Johnny laughed. "Y'know, I think about this sometimes. What if Reed Richards never took that rocket into space."

"And?"

"I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened. But it was so long ago. And so much has changed. So I can't. You know. I can't think of the person I'd be if this hadn't happened to me." Then he affected a worried face. "Honestly, I think I'd hate to meet him."

Then Johnny held out an arm. Parker took it and pulled his mask back on.

"You're my good friend, Pete," Johnny said. "I read Ben Urich's book. Believe it or not, I do a bunch of reading. I know what Norman Osborn's done, and not just to you."

"Yeah," Spider-Man said and scratched his head. This was approaching extreme awkwardness for him.

"So," Johnny said and smiled. "That is the most mature thing you'll hear me say until Sue makes me read _Tuesdays With Morrie_ again."

Spider-Man smiled. The mask shifted slightly. "Osborn," he said.

"Right," Johnny said. "Let's go kick his ass."

They descended through the hole Johnny had burned earlier. Touched down and saw the Sentry standing at the threshold of the gateway. The event horizon shone behind him, a brilliant field undulating blue and white.

He looked like he wasn't there at all.

The Sentry, as it so turned out, also doubled as his own worst enemy. No psychobabble either, Johnny thought. A sometimes-man sometimes-abomination that Bob Reynolds calls The Void.

Which just so happens to be at its most powerful inside the Negative Zone.

"Oh shit," Johnny said.

_We didn't see this coming_, he thought.

Too late he and Spider-Man joined Reed and Sue, and the rest. Cyclops and Emma Frost. Ben and Wolverine. Bucky as Captain America and Spider-Woman and Hawkeye and Mockingbird.

And the Sentry standing there, staring at the floor, at them, at the star field beyond. Looking very sad and very unstable.

Ares, the God of War, stepped forward. He raised a salutary hand.

"Ho, Robert! The battle is won!"

Sentry's eyes came up from the floor while the rest of the head was still bowed. It was a probing, pathological glower.

The twisted edge was there, in his voice. Low and calm and unsettling. It sounded like rolling thunder.

Here. Now.

The Void was coming.

Reed Richards clutched one hand on his wife's shoulder and said, in a breathless whisper, "Oh no."

A single sad tear slid down Robert Reynolds' face.

Spider-Man leaned in close to Johnny. "I hope that's your fighting suit," he whispered.

Five metres away, the Sentry stood motionless. His cape flowing out behind him. His eyes glowing, multiplying in their brilliance. The rest of him looking deflated. Drawn.

But glowing. Like he was warming up to something.

Johnny made out Bob's final words. Before the thing calling itself Bob Reynolds...began calling itself something more monstrous.

His final words. Five of them. Little and terrifying.

"Run. All of you. Please."

* * *

_**End...**_


End file.
